


Get Some

by sysrae



Series: All I Want Is You [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Angst, Bisexual Dean, But she and John are divorced, Castiel sleeps around, Childhood Trauma, College, College AU, Dean thinks he's straight, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Gay Panic, Housemates, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Multi, Pansexual Castiel, Parties that are sort of orgiastic, Recreational Drug Use, Roommates, Students, You know where I'm going with this, mary is alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 07:08:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2572628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sysrae/pseuds/sysrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Very slowly, Dean turns. 'How'd you know I was here about a room?'<br/>'Power of deduction,' says Castiel, leaning against the doorway. 'I mean, you're not after pot, and I'm pretty sure we haven't slept together.' He grins wolfishly, gaze sliding over Dean's body. 'You, I'd remember.'<br/>Dean's been hit on by guys before, but never so blatantly, let alone by a semi-naked dude in a kimono. A hot blush warms his cheeks, and he covers his shock with cockiness, tilting his head and grinning. 'Sorry to disappoint you, Cas, but I don't swing that way.'<br/>Castiel throws back his head and laughs. 'And you want to live here? What, did your friends put you up to this?'<br/>'Actually, yeah.' Dean raises an eyebrow. 'Is that a problem for you?'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

'I can't believe this.' Dean groans, slumping back in his chair. 'I can't be homeless, man. That's just bullshit.'

Victor laughs without a trace of sympathy. 'You're the dumbass who's been putting off finding a new place! As the wizard said to Dorothy, you're not in Kansas any more. The student rental market is a bearpit, and if you'd just started looking properly last month, like I told you to, you wouldn't be in this mess.'

Dean frowns at him. 'The wizard never said that.'

'Really? _That's_ the part of that statement you're going to pick on?'

'Well, it's not like I can pick on the rest of it,' Dean grumbles. He sips his beer and sighs. 'Look, I get it, all right? I'm an idiot. I just figured, you know, middle of the year, there'll be fewer people looking for places, ergo more places available, so why not take my time and find something good? Something the landlord's _not_ gonna tear down after six months.'

Victor rolls his eyes. 'Yeah, yeah. Cry me a river.'

'C'mon, man! These are some dire straits, and I ain't talking about the band. You've gotta help me find a new place.'

'Give me one good reason why I should bother.'

'Because,' says Dean, craftily, 'if I end up homeless, it's your couch I'm gonna be crashing on, and I'm pretty sure you don't want that.'

Victor winces. 'Good point. We need to find you a house, fast.' He lifts his beer to his lips, then pauses, a strange expression crossing his face. 'Actually....'

'What?' Dean sits up, staring at him. 'You know somewhere? Spit it out, dude!'

'Nah, nah. Crazy idea.' Victor takes a long swallow, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. 'Clean-cut Kansas boy that you are, it's not like he'd take you on, anyway – and even if he did, you'd probably kill each other inside of a week.'

'Who's this?' Charlie asks, thumping down beside them. 'Wait, has Dean finally found a new housemate?'

Victor laughs. 'Hell, no. I was just imagining him living at the Brothel.'

'The _what_?' says Dean.

'Oh my god, Dean.' Charlie pulls a face. 'How can you be a student here and not have heard of the Brothel? It's notorious!'

'Specifically,' says Victor, grinning, 'the _owner_ is notorious. You really don't know about Castiel Novak?'

Dean frowns. The name is vaguely familiar, but he can't quite place it. 'Maybe?'

'Well, he's –' Charlie starts, but Victor shushes her, a mischevious look on his face.

'No, no. Let him figure it out for himself.'

'Figure what out?' says Dean, thoroughly confused. 'Look, does this Castiel guy have a room for rent, or not?'

'That depends,' says Victor.

Dean almost growls. 'Depends? Depends on what? The phases of the moon?'

'On whether or not he likes you,' says Charlie, simply. 'Castiel is – well, he's a bit eccentric. He owns the place outright, so it's not like he needs help with the rent, but he sometimes takes on housemates anyway, I guess for the company or whatever. Who knows? Not that any of them seem to last that long, but it'd keep you off the streets for now, at least.'

'And his place is called the Brothel,' Dean says, sceptically. 'What is he, a pimp?'

'Why don't you go there, see for yourself?' says Victor, feigning nonchalance. 'It's actually not that far away.'

Dean glares at him. 'What the hell aren't you telling me, man?'

'Does it really matter?' Victor shrugs. 'It's not like he's going to take you on anyway.'

'So why I am I even bothering?'

'Because your house is getting bulldozed in a week and you don't have a better option.'

Dean sighs. 'Just gimme the damn address.'

 

*

 

From the outside, at least, the Brothel looks no worse than most other student properties Dean's ever seen. A single-story house on a corner block, it's bordered by an empty lot on one side and a foreclosed property on the other, the wooden fronting painted pale blue. The front yard is bordered by a chain-link fence, the weedy grass unmown and strewn with mismatched lawn furniture. As Dean walks up the front path, he makes a mental note to kill Victor and Charlie if this turns out to be a prank.

The main door is open, with only the screen between Dean and the interior. He hesitates, not sure whether to knock or call out – then yelps, startled, as a scruffy stranger sways into view on the other side.

'Shit!' says Dean. 'I mean, uh –'

'You're not Tiffany,' says the stranger. He pulls open the screen door, squinting in the afternoon sunlight. 'Are you?'

'Um... no?' Dean hesitates, completely thrown. 'Are you Castiel Novak?'

'Last time I checked. And you are?'

'Uh, Dean. Dean Winchester.' He holds out a hand, which Castiel doesn't take, forcing Dean to awkwardly withdraw it. He licks his lips, embarrassed. Castiel looks about eight different kinds of hungover: his dark hair is sticking up every which way, his blue eyes are bloodshot, there's at least a three day growth on his jaw, and even though it's 4pm on a Monday, he's wearing nothing but a pair of Roadrunner boxer shorts and an open kimono robe. 'Look, if it's a bad time, I can come back later –'

'Are you here to buy weed?' asks Castiel, suddenly.

Dean gapes at him. 'What?'

'It's a simple enough question. Are you here to buy weed?'

'No!'

'Oh.' Castiel blinks at him. 'Do you wanna get stoned anyway?'

 _Oh, for the love of –_ 'Look, never mind,' says Dean. 'It's not important. I'm sorry to have bothered you.'

He heads back down the path, and is halfway to the gate before Castiel calls after him, 'Do you want to live here, then?'

 Very slowly, Dean turns. 'How'd you know I was here about a room?'

'Power of deduction,' says Castiel, leaning against the doorway. 'I mean, you're not after pot, and I'm pretty sure we haven't slept together.' He grins wolfishly, gaze sliding over Dean's body. 'You, I'd remember.'

Dean's been hit on by guys before, but never so blatantly, let alone by a semi-naked dude in a kimono. A hot blush warms his cheeks, and he covers his shock with cockiness, tilting his head and grinning. 'Sorry to disappoint you, Cas, but I don't swing that way.'

Castiel throws back his head and laughs. 'And you want to live _here_? What, did your friends put you up to this?'

'Actually, yeah.' Dean raises an eyebrow. 'Is that a problem for you? I mean, do you have some moral objection to rooming with straight guys?'

'Not at all,' says Castiel. 'It's just that straight guys tend to have a problem rooming with me.'

Dean snorts. 'I'm not homophobic, dude. Just not gay.' And then, because he might as well get it over with, 'Look, I get if I'm not your ideal housemate or whatever, but the truth is, I really need a place to stay. My current digs are getting knocked down, I've got less than a week to relocate because I'm a dumbass who leaves important shit 'till the last minute, and yeah, my friends suggested you as a joke, but I'm here now, so –' he shrugs, spreading his hands, '– yes or no?'

Castiel gives him an odd look. 'That's it? Yes or no? We're not going to swap life stories first?'

Dean snorts. 'You really wanna bother with all that? The way I see it, we'll either get along or we won't, and even if we hate each other, that still gives me more time to find a new place than I'd have had otherwise. Besides, no offence, but you don't exactly seem like the kinda guy who's big into asking for references.'

'Fair enough,' says Castiel. He takes a breath, then says, 'Rent is ninety a week, plus half of utilities, but I pay for the wifi, cable and streaming accounts, because I'd be using them anyway. I'll probably buy most of the food, so we treat whatever's there as common. You can do whatever you want to your room so long as it doesn't damage the structural integrity of the house or materially piss me off, but so long as you run it by me first, that shouldn't be a problem. The bathroom and kitchen are shared spaces and I'll respect your right to them, but I can and will treat the lounge as an extension of my bedroom, and everything except your room is free game during parties, so you need to be prepared for that. Seriously. I mean it.'

'Gotcha,' says Dean, because it's not like he's opposed to a little couch nookie, and at least Cas is being up front about it.

Castiel looks like he doesn't believe him, but after a moment, he shrugs and continues. 'Please note, I throw a lot of parties, I use drugs regularly, and I have an active sex life. Oh, and there's an intermittent cat. She's mostly a stray, but she comes and goes. If any of that's a problem, speak now, or forever hold your peace.'

'I think I can cope with that,' says Dean, after a moment.

Castiel blinks, surprised. 'In that case, welcome aboard.' And he smiles, a broad, beaming expression that utterly transforms his face. Dean isn't into dudes, but goddamn if Castiel Novak doesn't have the kind of smile you'd consider switching teams for. It crinkles his eyes and nose, lighting him up, and Dean is helpless not to smile back.

'Thanks, man,' he says. 'I really appreciate it. So, uh, can I check out the room? I oughta see where I'm staying before I sign on the dotted line.'

'Sure,' says Castiel. He steps out of the doorway and waves Dean into the house. ' _Mi casa su casa,_ after all.'

 

*

 

'You're not serious,' says Victor.

'As a heart attack, man.' Dean grins, necking his beer. 'Honestly, I don't know what you guys were going on about. I mean, sure, Cas is a pretty weird guy, but he was up front with me about everything, the house is in good shape and the hot water pressure is excellent, so who am I to complain? I'm moving in first thing tomorrow.'

Charlie opens her mouth, then closes it again. She looks at Victor, a pained expression on her face. 'What have we done, Vic? We're monsters.'

'Will you guys knock it off?' says Dean. 'I'm not some shrinking violet, OK? I can handle a little weirdness. God, it's not like I don't put up with the two of you.'

Groaning, Victor puts a hand over his eyes and says, in his best theatrical voice, 'Lord, have mercy on my soul for sending one of your purest sons into the jaws of corruption, the den of iniquity, the –'

'Hey, hey!' says Dean, offended despite himself. 'First of all, I'm nowhere near pure. I'm a virtual font of impurity, and I'll thank you not to forget it. And second of all, the so-called den of iniquity comes with free wifi, so you can shut your cakehole.'

'Fifty bucks says you don't last two weeks,' says Charlie.

Victor cackles. 'Oh, I'm getting in on that action. Fifty from me, too.'

'Done,' says Dean, and shakes hands with both of them. 'I look forward to taking your money.'

Charlie and Victor both laugh even harder, leaving Dean to roll his eyes at the pair of them. Honestly, he doesn't get what all the fuss is about. Just how bad can Castiel be, anyway?

 

*

 

On Tuesday morning, Dean arrives to find an envelope taped to the front door with his name scrawled on it in messy capitals. Frowning, he pulls it open, and finds a pair of keys inside, alongside a short note:

_Hi Dean,_

_I'm asleep. Don't worry about waking me by accident; just try not to do it on purpose. The smaller key is for the back door, and the wifi password is SERAPHIM._

_See you in the PM,_

_Cas_

Chuckling, Dean adds the keys to his ring, then starts carrying boxes in from the car. His room is right next to Castiel's, but true to his word, his new housemate doesn't so much as stir, even when Dean accidentally drops a box of books on the wooden floor. He's almost tempted to poke his head round the door, check that Cas is actually _there_ , but it's not like it matters either way, so he doesn't.

Unpacking takes him just under an hour: Dean doesn't have much stuff, and he's actually got more space here than at his old place, which means he doesn't have to fuss about finding the best fit for everything. His new bed is a queen rather than a double, and comfier, too, which is a plus. He stretches out on it, testing the mattress, then gets up and grabs a quick shower – his first class is at 10:30, and he wants to time how long it'll take him to walk there. Once he's clean and dressed, he waits a few more minutes on the offchance Cas is going to emerge, but at 9:55 he gives it up as a lost cause and heads out, leaving the front door unlocked, just as he found it.

Tuesday isn't his busiest day, but his classes are stretched out over a long period of time and he has homework to catch up on in between them, so it's after five by the time he gets back home.

'Cas?' he calls, heading into the lounge. 'You up?'

'Barely,' comes the raspy answer. Castiel is sprawled on the couch in the same robe and boxers he wore yesterday, and if possible, he looks even worse. His eyes are no longer bloodshot, but there are dark circles under them, and his hair is a bird's nest.

'Jesus, dude. You look like shit.'

'I feel like shit,' says Cas, rubbing his face. 'I got into a groove working on my thesis last night, so I drank a bunch of Red Bull to keep going, but then I needed to crash and I couldn't, so I took some sleeping pills, and apparently my body has a “problem” with that.' He actually uses airquotes, fingers twitching sarcastically. 'I woke up an hour ago, and I'd really rather be dead.' He blinks at Dean. 'You feel like ordering takeout?'

'Sure,' says Dean, who's too used to Charlie to be easily phased by sudden changes in topic and too used to Victor's appetite to ever refuse an offer of food, and when Cas straightens up, he comes to sit beside him on the couch. What with the kimono hanging open and all, and as crappy as the rest of him looks, it's hard not to notice how lean and muscular he is – a runner's frame, Dean guesses. Not that he's checking him out, or anything. 'So, you're a grad student, huh. What's your topic?'

Cas snorts. 'Subversive representations of religion and mythology in popular culture, which is another way of saying pompous metatextual bullshit. I was probably high when I picked it out, but then again, I'm high a lot of the time, so that's not saying much.' He tilts his head, looking at Dean. 'What do you study? I never asked.'

'I'm second year sports medicine, but I only transferred here at the start of the year. Before that, I was at the University of Kansas.'

'Kansas boy, huh?' Cas grins a lopsided grin. 'Let me guess: you were Homecoming King, captain of the football team, and probably voted Most Popular in yearbook.'

'So what if I was?' says Dean, defensively. 'Doesn't mean I'm stupid.'

'Of course not,' says Castiel. 'Though it's interesting you assumed I'd think so. But with all due respect, you have to admit it's a bit cliché. Did you lose your virginity to a cheerleader, too?'

Dean laughs despite himself. 'Hey, there's nothing wrong with the classics. Besides, she was bendy.' And he wiggles his eyebrows, because Dean Winchester isn't the kind of guy who backs down easily from a game of Sexual Banter Chicken, even if it is with his new and mostly naked housemate.

'Classics,' Cas says, and snorts again, a smile tugging his lips. 'God, you're a find.'

They spend the rest of the night on the couch eating takeaway and watching Netflix, talking intermittently about themselves. Cas is twenty-five to Dean's twenty-one; he's an only child; and he apparently identifies as pansexual rather than gay. In return, Dean tells him a bit about his kid brother, his car and his move from Kansas, which was as much about wanting to get out on his own as because UC Santa Cruz has a better programme.

Around eleven, Cas abruptly announces his need to go for a run – 'I like to exercise at night,' he says, when Dean points out what time it is – so Dean heads to his room, deciding to get a good night's sleep.

As he lies under the covers, he replays his conversation with Cas, trying to figure out what he's missing. Dean considers himself a decent judge of character, and so far, Castiel has been nothing but pleasant company. Sure, the guy leaves housekeys taped to the front door, takes clearly terrible care of himself and does weird crap like studying religion in pop culture and running in the dark, but that's it. What the hell are Victor and Charlie so worried about?

 

*

 

The next few days are much the same: Dean gets up and goes to class while Cas is still asleep, then hangs out with him in the evening. Though he still looks tired, Cas starts to perk up around Thursday, and on Friday morning, he's actually awake before Dean, happily making a full breakfast of coffee, eggs and bacon.

'Big night tonight!' he announces, as Dean pulls up a chair. 'You got any plans?'

'Nothing much,' says Dean. 'Just meeting Victor and Charlie for drinks, maybe grabbing a slice of pizza – did you seriously cook me breakfast?' he asks, startled, as Cas puts a plate of food in front of him.

'I did,' says Cas, sitting down with his own meal opposite. He's cleanshaven for once, and the change is striking. 'Friday breakfast is important. We must fortify our stomachs appropriately for the trials ahead.'

'I'm guessing you've got your own plans, then?' asks Dean, around a mouthful of bacon.

'I usually do,' says Castiel. He winks at him, mock-flirtatious, and it's just as well he goes straight back to eating his eggs, because Dean is just a little bit more flustered than he'd like to admit. It's not like he's attracted to Cas or anything – it's just that the guy has stupidly blue eyes, like ocean-sky-sapphire blue, and when they're not jaundiced from exhaustion or bloodshot from booze, the clarity in them is startling.

They eat their meal in companionable silence, and Dean heads off to class.

It's a pretty hectic day, coursewise, and by the time he meets up with Victor and Charlie, he's feeling in need of some R&R. But for some reason, his asshole friends can't leave the subject of Castiel alone; they keep swapping meaningful glances whenever Dean says that things are fine, that Cas is a nice guy, and _seriously Charlie stop laughing, what the fuck is so funny?_

'You'll see,' she giggles, 'eventually.'

Dean scowls and eats his pizza.

After dinner, Victor gets a text invite from one of his frat buddies asking them all to a last-minute party; Charlie wants in, and she tries to get Dean to come along, too, but he's shitty enough with the both of them over whatever-it-is they keep refusing to say about Cas that he pleads off.

'I'll see you later,' he says, cutting Charlie off mid-sentence, and stalks back across campus, hands shoved in his pockets.

He's so preoccupied with his sulk, it's not until he's almost at the door to the house that he realises he can hear music coming from inside. He shrugs, figuring Cas must've thrown his own last-minute shindig, and heads inside.

And stops.

 _Party_ is one word for what he's witnessing; _orgy_ , though, is probably more accurate. The house is full of people, most of whom are seemingly half-naked and grinding against each other: there are shirtless guys and topless girls everywhere, their laughter barely audible over the thudding music, and everyone is splattered with – Jesus, is that _edible body paint_? Dean knows he's staring, which probably makes him a creepy voyeur, but it's kind of hard to look away when the two topless girls in front of him are actively licking each other, hands roaming in ways that are decidedly _not_ PG. Drymouthed, he looks around, trying to find somewhere safer to rest his eyes, and just about has a heart attack when he realises the dark-haired, barefoot guy making out with a cute blonde girl while another guy licks sauce off his chest is _Cas_.

Dean gapes. Now he _really_ needs to look away, although he's having a hard time remembering why – god, it's not like he doesn't live here, like this isn't all going on in the fucking living room, where he has every right in the world to be – but Cas is just... he's sitting on the arm of the lounge, head twisted to kiss the girl who's sitting behind him, long fingers tangled in her hair, while the guy – Dean can't see his face, but if his shoulders and back are anything to go by, he's cut as hell – kneels between his legs, palms braced on Cas's thighs as he sucks his way up his ribs.

' _Fuck_ ,' Dean breathes, the word slipping out of its own accord, and there's no way Cas heard him, not with the music so loud, but his housemate still picks that moment to pull away from the girl and turn, his glassy gaze fixing on Dean. He smiles, wide and inviting, the girl still kissing his neck, and as if that wasn't enough, he _winks_ at Dean again, just like he did at breakfast.

At which point, Dean realises two things: first, that he either needs to leave, join the party, or go to his room, because continuing to stand in the doorway and gawk isn't really a viable option; and second, that he's ragingly hard, because this entire scenario is like something out of a porno, and even if half the participants are men, he's only human.

Blushing furiously, Dean shoves through the crowd to his room – which is mercifully unoccupied – and locks the door behind him. He stands there, dazed and panting, for almost a full minute, the bassline thudding through the wood and into his back. He tries to erase the mental image of a debauched, half-naked Castiel winking at him from the lounge, but for some stupid reason, that only makes things worse, and when he looks down at his hands, he realises there's a smear of sauce, or paint, or whatever it is, on the back of one of them.

Without even thinking, he raises the hand to his lips and licks the coloured streak.

It tastes like chocolate and raspberries.

And then he remembers he doesn't know where it came from, that he's just eaten something he accidentally rubbed off of some random stranger – god, not rubbed off like _rubbed them off_ , like he just walked past and got sauce on himself, and was dumb enough to want to taste it – and the thought is simultaneously arousing and mortifying, and he doesn't know what to do with that. He desperately wants relief, but even with the door locked, it feels creepy as hell to just jerk off while there's still a party going on in the next room, and especially when he knows he won't be able to resist fantasising about being part of it.

Which is so pathetic, he has to sit down. Jesus Christ, it's not like he's shy about sex or strangers – he's had more than his share of one night stands, done the walk of shame enough times to have it down to an artform – but he doesn't know the etiquette here, how to just walk out into... into whatever Cas wants to call this, and join in. If it were a regular party, mingling wouldn't be hard, but it kinda feels like he'd be obligated to go out there shirtless, or lick bodypaint off of someone, or –

There's a knock on the door.

'Dean?' Cas calls. 'Dean, you OK?'

 _Son of a bitch_. Dean grits his teeth, forcing himself to stand and respond like a normal person. _You're not freaked out. You can do this._

He opens the door, and there's Cas, his habitually messy hair transformed now and forever in Dean's eyes to sex hair, sticky lines gleaming on his collarbone and hickies on his ribs. He's flush from alcohol and probably something else, too, given the size of his pupils, lips swollen and pink, and he looks Dean over with a mixture of exuberance and concern, like a puppy who thinks you might be too mad to play, but who still can't stop itself from bringing you the ball.

'Hey, uh – I just wanted to say, you know, you don't have to stay in here,' says Cas. He leans his arm on the doorframe, swaying ever so slightly, the motion drawing Dean's eye to his hips. 'I mean, you can if you want to, but I didn't want you to feel left out, like I hadn't invited you.'

Dean sucks in breath, forcing himself to look at Castiel's face. 'You winked at me, dude. Pretty sure that counts as an invitation.' And then he flinches, because _holy fuck_ , why the hell would he say something like that? 'I mean, uh – shit – I –'

'I think it means,' Cas murmurs, leaning in close to him, 'that you're not as straight as you think you are.'

And before Dean can think of how to respond, Cas kisses him.

Dean freezes up. His heart is hammering in his ears, and he's still so fucking aroused, and confused, and buzzed from the bar, and without even meaning to, he parts his lips and lets Cas in, moaning involuntarily. Cas tastes of chocolate and raspberries, and for a brief, insane moment, Dean forgets that he's not into guys, that Cas is his fucking _housemate_ – forgets everything and just kisses back, grabbing Cas's hips and pulling him close.

And then he jerks back, furious with both of them, and shoves Cas bodily away.

'What the fuck was that for?' he gasps, outraged. 'Get out, man!'

Cas pales slightly, running a hand through his hair, a spark of clarity lighting his eyes. 'Dean, I'm sorry, I –'

He shoves him again, hard enough that Cas goes stumbling backwards, and then Dean slams the door on him, his fingers shaking as he works the lock.

 


	2. Chapter 2

In the end, Dean has to put his earplugs in, and even then, he doesn't so much sleep as brood. The party goes on all night, and even once the music finally shuts off around 4am, he can still feel the bassline burned into his brain, the way that stupid kiss is burned onto his lips. And what the fuck was Castiel playing at, anyway? Sure, he was clearly drunk and high, but that's no fucking excuse to go around kissing guys he knows aren't into him, and especially not when he's apparently got a whole damn houseful of willing bodies lining up to do him.

Dean shoves his face in the pillow, biting back a moan. He is not thinking about Cas having sex right now. He's _not_. His body's just confused, because there's no way he can get himself off that won't leave him feeling like a creep, so he's fixating on Cas instead, because _Cas fucking kissed him_ , and what did he even _mean_ , Dean's not as straight as he thinks he is? He only kissed back out of shock, he stopped as soon as he realised what was happening, and god, it's not like he wasn't already aroused, the way everyone else was getting it on out there –

Charlie and Victor are going to laugh their fucking _asses_ off.

Somehow, Dean manages to catch enough sleep that, when he finally wakes up at 10am, he doesn't feel like complete crap. Wary of who might still be in the house, he puts on a robe and knots it tightly before venturing out to the bathroom, feeling oddly protective of his right to not be ogled by drunk strangers first thing on a Saturday. Taking a deep, preparatory breath, he cracks open the door and peeks out, expecting chaos.

The house is empty.

More than that, though: it's _spotless_.

By rights, the bathroom alone should be a trainwreck; instead, it looks cleaner than it did yesterday, metal and porcelain sparkling like they've been freshly cleaned. Dean wanders through the rest of the house, looking for the enormous pile of sticky debris that must surely be stacked in a corner, but finds only more of the same: swept floors, clean walls, and just the faintest whiff of furniture polish. Even the lounge looks like it's been given a thorough going-over, and it's all so distracting that he doesn't immediately notice Cas, who's sitting at the kitchen table, clutching an oversized mug of coffee and looking like someone just ran ten thousand volts through him.

'Jesus!' Dean yelps, and Cas jumps in his seat.

'Dean!' He stands up, bites his lip, and sits straight back down again. His left leg twitches constantly, and when he speaks, the words come out far too quickly, a single, jittery exhalation: 'I-cleaned-the-house-and-sorry-for-what-I-did-I-was-out-of-line-I'm-sorry-please-don't-move-out.'

Dean takes a moment to digest all this. 'Just so we're clear,' he says, leaning his palms on the end of the table, 'you're apologising for kissing me, not for throwing an orgiastic party without any prior notice, right?'

Cas nods, a sharp jerk of his head. 'Told-you-I-partied-slept-around-used-the-lounge.'

Which is, unfortunately, true. Dean opens his mouth to protest on the grounds of a technicality, but stops when he finally realises that Castiel is strung out in a way that can't be accounted for wholly by caffeine, and especially not when his giant mug appears to still be full. Throw in the current state of the house and the fact that the music was still on at four, and there's a convincing argument to be made that Cas hasn't actually slept.

Dean narrows his gaze. 'What are you on right now?'

The answering grin is frighteningly manic. 'Uppers. Had-to-clean-couldn't-sleep-had-to-be-awake-before-you-had-to-explain.'

'You –' Dean runs a hand through his hair, exasperated. 'You're a fucking mess, you know that?'

Cas nods again, his smile twitching painfully. 'Fucking-mess,' he agrees. 'It's-a-pun-I'm-a-fucking-mess-both-ways. I.' He takes a deep, laboured breath, forcing himself to slow down. 'I shouldn't have kissed you.'

'No, you shouldn't,' says Dean. He lets the moment stretch, then sighs and says, 'Just don't – don't do it again, OK?'

Cas jerks in his chair, surprised. 'So you won't go?'

Dean snorts. 'Even if I wanted to, I've got nowhere else _to_ go. But no, man, I'll stay. You're fucking weird and your parties are nuts, but this place is pretty sweet. Just keep your hands to yourself, and we're cool. Deal?'

'Deal,' says Cas.

'And get some fucking sleep, man.' Dean frowns at him. 'Seriously, I'm glad the house is clean, but you need to take better care of yourself.'

At that, Cas smiles his first real smile of the morning, the one that makes him light up. 'I'll try,' he says, and somewhere deep inside, a small part of Dean thinks, _Shit._

 

*

 

'Soooo,' says Charlie, feigning casual interest with all the grace and subtlety of a brick to the face. 'Word is, the Brothel kicked off last night. Any comments, Dean?'

Dean sits back in his chair, considering. 'Edible body paint is actually pretty tasty,' he says at last.

Victor chokes on his Subway.

 

*

 

On Saturday afternoon, Dean arrives home to the sound of Castiel and an unknown partner having what sounds like extremely enthusiastic sex. Happily, they're doing it in the bedroom rather than somewhere Dean can see, but it leaves him redfaced all the same. He shoves his headphones on to block out the sound for what feels like a good half-hour, reading on his bed with the door ajar. Then he hears the front door slam, the sound loud enough to cut through the chorus of _Come As You Are._ He turns the music off, wandering out into the lounge room.

'Cas?' he calls. 'Hey, is everything OK?'

The answer comes from Cas's room. 'Fine, Dean. Just going to sleep.'

Dean wants to ask more, but Cas doesn't exactly sound distressed, and the guy does need his rest.

'All right, then,' he says, and heads back in to his book. It's on loan from Charlie – she's been insisting he read it for ages, so Dean intermittently texts her his reactions to each new chapter, grinning at her responses. He gets so wrapped up in the ending, it's after seven before he finally sits up, stretches and heads into the kitchen, where – somewhat unsurprisingly, after last night – the fridge turns out to be empty. Stomach grumbling, he's about to go and knock on Cas's door to see if he's up for ordering pizza when the man himself appears, bedheaded and sleepy in his kimono and boxers, which seems to be standard Cas-attire when hungover.

'Pizza?' Dean asks, and Cas groans, rubbing his face.

'God yes.' He blinks at Dean blearily. 'Were you here when Stephanie left? I thought I heard you come in, but I can't remember.'

'Stephanie? Oh. Sex girl.' Cas snorts at that, and Dean grins. 'Nah, man. She slammed the door pretty loud on her way out, though. You piss her off or something?'

'I may have done,' Cas admits. His voice is steadier now, calmer. 'I think she expected I'd let her sleep here afterwards, but the whole point was that _I_ needed sleep, which I did explain, and she fidgets, so –'

'Wait, wait.' Dean holds up a hand. 'You invited a girl over here to, what, sex you to sleep? And then you _kicked her out of bed?_ '

Cas rubs his arm. 'She fidgets, Dean.'

'Oh, dude. That is _cold_.'

'I may have crossed a line.' He looks away, suddenly awkward. 'Again.'

Dean doesn't know what to say to that, so he doesn't say anything. Instead, he goes to the drawer where Cas keeps the takeout menus and asks, 'So, we feeling Pizza Hut, Dominos or the local guys tonight?'

'You can pick the place,' says Cas, visibly relieved by the change in topic, 'if I can pick the movie.'

'Done,' says Dean, grinning.

 

*

 

After that, life with Cas takes on – well, not a routine, exactly, because that implies more predictability than Dean feels really applies, but a vague adherence to pattern. Monday to Thursday, Castiel is a dorky nightowl who sleeps through the morning, occasionally appears on campus in the afternoon, then reappears at home in the evening, ready to eat dinner, watch TV – or not, if Dean has work he needs to get done or friends to meet, or if Cas wants to run instead – and finally work on his thesis once Dean goes to bed. He gets less less bleary, more focussed, the closer it gets to Friday, which is the only day of the week he likes to wake up early. Always, he cooks them both breakfast, though not always the same thing, and if Dean is honest, it's fast becoming his favourite part of the week. It's not just the food, although Cas is a surprisingly good cook; it's that Friday mornings star Cas at his most lucid and well-rested, and therefore – though he seems to be unaware of this fact – at his happiest.

The rest of the time, he's so fucked up that Dean doesn't understand how he even functions: if it's not booze, it's weed; if it's not weed, it's pills; if it's not pills, it's cigarettes or caffeine; and if it's none of the above, either singularly or in combination, it's good old fashioned insomnia. Though none of what he takes is strictly illegal – he has a script for medical marijuana, though whether it's legit or not is anyone's guess, and the pills are likewise from pharmacies rather than dealers – he switches between uppers and downers like they're just different coloured M&M's, and while he must be paying at least some attention to medical counter-indications (or at least, Dean can't see how he's survived this long if he isn't), he's not exactly conscientious, either.

And then there are the parties.

If Dean had thought for a minute that the night of edible body paint was exceptional, the following week would've proved him wrong: he didn't stick around, but what he did catch seemed to involve naked Twister and whiskey shots, and when he finally came home from Victor's place, he found his housemate passed out in the bathroom. Every Friday or Saturday night, without fail, Cas hosts some sort of crazy, hedonistic gathering and leads by wild example. It doesn't seem to matter whether he invites ten guests or a hundred, if they start out listening to smooth jazz or dirty techno: inevitably, there comes a point when the clothes come off, and that's when Dean, if he's there at all, tends to make his excuses and leave, while Castiel stays and – almost invariably – ends up having sex.

Two weeks in, after winning his bet with Victor and Charlie, Dean had made the mistake of congratulating himself on his open-mindedness. Sure, the kiss had been awkward, but he felt like he was adapting to Cas's habits; that, as weird and self-destructive as his housemate was, he couldn't actually be shocked by him any more.

His self-satisfaction lasted until Saturday morning, when he stepped out of his room – his earplugs, crucially, still in place – and found himself confronted by the sight of one of Victor's frat buddies blowing Cas on the couch. Dean retreated so fast, he almost fell over his own feet, but not before establishing three things: first, that Castiel had been moaning; secondly, that both participants had seen him enter, though neither had stopped; and thirdly, that he was most definitely capable of getting aroused by the sight of just two dudes, which is something he's too shocked to try and analyse on the grounds that, in this case, he knows both of them.

Sundays, by contrast, are more relaxed, and are usually when the intermittent cat shows up. With or without their feline companion, Dean and Cas slouch around the house – which Castiel cleans, compulsively, after every party – and unwind together, because for all their differences, they get on surprisingly well. Cas is one of those rare humans, like Charlie, who has the knack of being able to share Dean's space without intruding on it, and the feeling seems to be mutual. It's days like this that Dean is most grateful for not having to work a part-time job: for this year, at least, he gets to live off a combination of savings and scholarship money, and after how hectic his first year was, it's a luxury he can appreciate. Cas, though – he's not sure where Cas gets his cash from; only that he never seems to be short of it. His first guess was some sort of family fortune, but the one time he brought up the subject, Cas closed over and said, quietly, 'I don't have a family.'

Which either means they're dead or douchebags, and as curious as he is, Dean's not about to pry. He figures Cas will tell him when he's ready or when he's drunk enough, whichever comes first – and given the way the Brothel runs, it'll probably be the latter.

Really, though: the only bad thing about living with Cas is how hard Dean suddenly finds it to get dates to come home with him. Dean doesn't know how – though he suspects that Victor and his big mouth have something to do with it – but after his first month with Cas, he somehow ends up with a reputation as the Brothel Tenant, and given that the kind of girls he goes for mostly aren't the type who go to Cas's parties, trying to get them back to his room always proves a little tricky, and not just because he tends to attempt it on Friday and Saturday nights, either. Charlie wasn't lying when she said his house was notorious, and half the time, he ends up having to explain that, no, he's not into that stuff, he doesn't want a threesome, and he isn't kinky.

Although he's kind of starting to wish he was and did and is, because after the second month with Cas, he starts getting turned down on the basis of his denials, which is a whole new kettle of weird. He makes the mistake of complaining about this to Victor, who shoots him the kind of filthy stare normally reserved for dudes who wash your car windscreen while you're stopped at the lights, and mutters something about 'Dumbass white boys who don't know how good they've got it.' Charlie, though, laughs so hard she just about falls off her chair, then leans in to whisper that, speaking confidentially, if Dean ever wants to snag _her_ an invite one of Cas's parties, what with all the hot queer women reputed to be in attendance –

'God, are you insane?' Dean splutters.

'Are you?' Charlie counters. 'Because, Dean, no offence, but for a guy who lives in an actual House of Sex, you seem to be having noticeably less of it than the rest of us.'

Dean makes a face. 'Charlie, two days a week, my house is a live action porno starring people I know. It's a miracle I still want to bone anyone at all.'

But all the same, the comment niggles at him. He's yet to stick out one of Cas's parties all the way through, and given that he's starting to be associated with the damn things, he should at least find out what all the fuss is about, right?

Even if it does mean exposing himself to the sight of a nearly-naked, wilfully debauched Castiel.

 

*

 

Two weeks later, as Cas is serving up Friday breakfast – blueberry pancakes, this time – Dean finally works up the courage to say, 'So, uh. Whatever you're planning tonight. You mind if I join in?'

'You always join in,' says Cas, pulling up a chair. 'Right up until you don't. Which is completely fine, Dean,' he adds, quickly. 'It's your house, too, you can participate however you want, or not –'

'I mean, _join in_ , join in.' Dean sucks in a breath, unable to bring himself to look at Cas. 'I just thought, you know. I might... give it a try. See what happens.'

'Oh. Oh!'

'If you'd rather I didn't –'

'Hell no!' Cas grins at him, that thousand watt smile lighting up the kitchen. 'You want me to set you up with someone?'

The offer is obscurely upsetting. 'I can pick up girls by myself, thanks,' says Dean, rolling his eyes.

'And guys?' Cas asks, raising an eyebrow.

It's a gentle question, but nonetheless electrifying. Dean stabs at his pancake, shoving it about on the plate. 'Cas, you know I don't –'

' – swing that way. Yeah. You've said. And I'm not trying to pressure you, or make you into something you're not, or anything like that. I just – you give the impression, sometimes –' he's choosing his words carefully, '– that you might be a bit more... flexible, sexually speaking, than you're willing to acknowledge.' And then, with a sigh, 'I've _seen_ you, Dean. I might be off my head half the time, but that doesn't mean I don't pay attention. And what I notice, among other things, is you noticing girls _and_ boys.'

'You notice me?' Dean asks, stupidly, which – _fuck_ – is _so_ not what he meant to say.

Cas gives him a Look. 'Of course I notice you, dumbass. You stand out. And besides,' he adds, grinning wickedly, 'you're cute when you blush.'

Cas always flirts a little on Friday morning, the same way he always makes breakfast and shaves and puts on actual clothes. It's a little incongruous piece of routine, and even with the kiss and the unexpectedly witnessed blowjob hanging between them, Dean's never read anything into it, assuming – not unreasonably – that Cas being flirty is just a secondary function of Cas being cheerful, rather than something directed specifically at _him_. So he shrugs it off, ignoring the slight flutter the compliment produces, and says, 'Of course I notice guys, Cas. Some of them are pretty hot. That doesn't make me gay; it just means I have eyes.'

'I'm sorry,' says Cas, 'I don't think I heard that correctly. You find men hot?'

'Some of them, yeah. But I'm straight, Cas. I told you.'

Castiel stares at him. 'Dean Winchester, where the hell did you find your definition of heterosexuality? Because – and you're forcing me to quote _The Princess Bride_ , here – _You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means._ '

'Are we seriously having this conversation right now?' Dean swallows a mouthful of pancake, sighs, and thumps his fork down on the table. 'Look, it's really not that hard. I was always into girls, but around about fifteen or so I started to notice guys, and I kinda freaked out a little because, you know, Kansas. I was worried about being different, so I asked my dad about it, and he sat me down and explained that it was OK to think men were attractive, but that didn't mean I had to start thinking I was gay, and to remember I'd liked girls for longer, so –' He stops, because the look Cas is giving him is somewhere between confusion and horror.

'You're joking,' he says. He almost sounds angry, which is so out of character that Dean sits back, blinking. 'Dean, tell me you're fucking trolling me right now.'

'Why would I do that?' He bristles. 'Listen, Cas, if you've got something to say, just spit it out, OK?'

'All right, then.' Cas lays his hands flat on the table, jaw clenched. 'I think that you, Dean Winchester, are bisexual. I think you've always been bisexual, and that when you told your dad about finding guys hot, he either didn't realise that bisexuality was a real orientation or he was too homophobic to want to admit that it was, because either way, his first response was to teach you – albeit kindly, with a pat on the back – that only what you felt for women was real. I think he taught you this lesson so effectively that you accepted it without question; I think you internalised it _so damn well_ –' he leans forward slightly, fingers gripping the table, '– that six years later, despite having multiple openly queer friends and knowing _exactly_ what bisexuality is, you've never once stopped to consider that you might not be straight, because why would your dad lie to you about something like that?'

Dean goes cold all over. He wants to respond, wants to yell at Cas to shut the fuck up about his dad, he doesn't know what he's talking about, except he's suddenly terrified that he does, because what the fuck kind of idiot is he, that he's never so much as considered it himself? And meanwhile, Cas is just sitting there looking all sex-haired and worried and _oh, fuck, I can't do this right now –_

'I gotta go,' says Dean, which is the dumbest exit line in the history of exit lines, and pushes away from the table. 'I'll see you later, Cas.'

'Dean, wait –'

He leaves with his pancakes unfinished. 


	3. Chapter 3

Dean goes to class, but everything he hears might as well be static, for all the attention he's paying. He vacillates between confusion and anger, self-doubt and outrage. It's not like he has a problem with queerness in general, and once he thinks to look for it, there's no lack of evidence for his being attracted to dudes in the more-than-aesthetically-appreciative sense; it's just that he can't seem to apply the concept of bisexuality to himself without some stupid inner voice protesting the label. And it's not like he wants to go all Freudian into the Big Gay Panic bargain, but the louder the voice gets, the more it sounds like his dad; and the more it sounds like his dad, the more Dean finds himself remembering other conversations they had on the subject of his sexuality, even if he didn't always realise that's what they were discussing at the time, and what he recalls is enough to leave his head spinning. 

'Dean?' says Charlie, poking him in the ribs. 'You OK in there?'

They're eating lunch in the quad – or rather, Charlie's eating; Dean's sandwich is still untouched. He blinks, experiencing a momentary longing for Cas's blueberry pancakes. Those things are  _good_ , and he just stormed out and left them there, and – shit. He really need to apologise to Cas, once he finally works up the nerve, because everything he said was right, and Dean acted like a complete jerk about it. But it's Friday, which means he'll either have to try and tell him sometime tonight, when Cas is bound to be off his face, or wait the two or three or four days it'll take for him to sober up again, and Jesus Christ, why the fuck does Cas keep doing this to himself? It's not like any of it makes him  _happy_ , not like Friday mornings do, and Dean's starting to have nightmares about his housemate overdosing or getting beaten up or raped, because some of the people he sleeps with are, frankly, shifty as fuck, and it's not like Cas is always in a position to give informed consent, even if he is ostensibly conscious.

And as for when he's not, he either sleeps like a zombie or he doesn't sleep at all, just blacks out somewhere and calls it rest, and Dean's not exactly a health nut, but he's started stocking the kitchen with vitamins and milk and fruit and bugging Cas to eat them, because the guy just runs himself ragged, and there's no way a diet composed almost exclusively of takeaway, leftovers, booze and medication is doing him any favours. Shit, he takes better care of the intermittent cat than he does of himself, buys her all sorts of fancy tuna even though she's only there half the time, but when it comes to  _his_ meals – 

'Dean!' Charlie snaps her fingers in front of his face. 'Earth to Dean! Hey! Are you stoned or something?'

He snorts. 'What? No! I mean, come on.' He points at his sandwich. 'If I were stoned right now, I'd be eating.' 

'Fair point.' Charlie leans her chin on her hands, frowning at him. 'So what's up?'

'Nothing.' 

Charlie raises an eyebrow. 

'Nothing, all right? I just... I'm just trying to work through some stuff, is all. It's no big deal, but it's kind of –' The eyebrow ascends ever further, and without quite meaning to, Dean blurts out, 'Look, I'm worried about Cas, OK? The way he lives, it's not healthy. He's hurting himself.'

'And you're just now figuring this out?'

'No! I mean, kind of. Maybe. I just – never mind.' He makes a cutting gesture and grabs his sandwich, biting down angrily. 'Forget I said anything.' 

'Right,' says Charlie, giving him an unfathomable look. 'You coming out tonight?'

'Maybe,' Dean hedges. 'It's been kind of a big week.'

'Which is why the Powers That Be invented alcohol.' She gives him her patented puppydog eyes. 'C'mon, back me up, bar buddy – ever since Victor beat me at Halo he's been  _unbearable_ , and if you leave us alone together, I'm going to end up stabbing him through the eye with one of those little paper umbrellas they put in cocktails.'

'Now  _that_ ,' says Dean, around a mouthful of food, 'I would pay to see.' 

'Ugh!' Charlie slaps his arm. 'Chew it, don't spew it!  _God_ , I need better friends.' 

The bickering is familiar, easy, and for the first time that morning, Dean manages to focus on something other than his apparent bisexuality, or Castiel – or what he's going to find when he heads home.

 

*

 

Somehow, Dean manages to get through the rest of his classes, and by 6pm, he's reached two important (though admittedly beer-assisted) life decisions: firstly, that it's OK if he takes more than a day to figure out his sexuality – because hey, it's not like it's going anywhere – and secondly, that he's going to Castiel's goddamn Brothel party if it kills him. Which, conceivably, it will, the way people drink at those things, but as the alternative is hanging out with Victor and Charlie, who are currently having a semi-serious slapfight by the jukebox over the joint question of whose round it is and whether Janeway was a better captain than Picard, he takes the opportunity to slip away before either of them realises that it is, in fact,  _his_ round, and heads across campus to home.

As usual, he doesn't know what to expect from Cas, and as he catches sight of the house, he makes the mistake of imagining what he might be about to walk into. His heartrate doubles in anticipation, and when he hears the telltale thump of loud music, he sucks in breath and braces. But when he opens the door, the sight that greets him is... well, not exactly  _tame_ , because there's a basket full of cheap plastic collars beside the door, many of which the guests are already wearing, but the music is rock, nobody's really naked yet, and Cas is – 

Dean does a double-take. No way that's Castiel, because Castiel Novak doesn't wear shirts after 5pm on Friday, let alone a fucking button-down under a striped silk vest, and certainly not paired with dark slacks, dress shoes and a leather belt. But then the guy turns all the way around, and  _holy shit_ , it really is Cas, and with all the times that Dean's seen him either bare-assed, bare-chested or both, it's completely insane that the sight of him wearing  _more_ clothes should be having this sort of effect. Except that it is, because Dean's gone completely drymouthed, and suddenly all he can hear is one of the gravel-voiced aunts from  _The Simpsons_ rasping,  _Well, there goes the last lingering thread of my heterosexuality_ , because  _goddamn_ . 

Exhibiting his usual eerie knack for timing, Cas picks this moment to notice Dean, his blue eyes bright. 

'You came,' he says, like it's a complete shock that Dean would, at some point, choose to return to his own damn house – but then, he did kind of leave in a hurry. 'I'm, uh. I'm glad.' And it's only when he smiles that Dean realises what else is different about tonight: Cas might have a drink in hand, but his eyes are completely normal.  _He's not high,_ and the realisation is so staggering, Dean forgets that it's his turn to talk and just stares at him, drinking in the completely unprecedented sight of a well-dressed, lucid Castiel. 

As Dean remains silent, Cas's smile starts to falter. 'Um, unless you're not really here to –' 

'No, no! Shit! Sorry, Cas. I just, uh, I kind of zoned out there, huh? It's been a weird day.' Dean rubs his neck, smiling awkwardly. 'I'm glad I came, too. And, uh. Sorry about this morning. I shouldn't have –'

'No, don't,' says Cas, getting in ahead of him. 'I was an asshole, I shouldn't have pushed like I did.'

'Seriously, dude. It's fine.' Dean takes a deep breath and changes the topic. 'So, uh. What's with the collars? Should I pick one out, or –'

'Oh!' Cas grins, indicating a handwritten sign taped to the wall over the basket. 'It's like a variant on a stoplight party. Instead of asking people to wear red, yellow or green depending on whether they want to hook up or not, you pick a collar depending on your preferences. So, white is straight, purple is gay, green is if you're bi or pan or flexible, and anything with studs means you're into kink, too. Neat, huh?'

Dean laughs. 'Cas, man, where the hell did you get this many collars on such short notice? Dungeons R Us?'

'What? Like that's not a real thing?' And before Dean can respond to that, he reaches down into the basket, pulls out a green, unstudded collar, and loops it around his own neck. Rather than fastening with a buckle, there's a double press-stud – 'So no one can choke you by accident,' Cas says, at Dean's curious look – and it goes on easily. 'There!'

Dean blinks in surprise. 'No studs?'

Cas shrugs, and maybe it's just a trick of the light, but Dean could swear he blushes. 'Multiple casual partners aside, I'm actually pretty vanilla. Maybe a bit exhibitionist, but that's not quite the same thing.'

'Fair enough,' says Dean, and before he can lose his nerve, he grabs a second plain green collar and snaps it in place around his own throat, hands shaking only slightly. Cas's eyes go wide, and Dean says, a little breathlessly, 'I guess we're matching, then.' 

'Yeah,' says Cas, staring at the collar. 'Guess so.'

There's a moment of awkward silence, and for the first time in weeks, Dean lets himself think about that kiss – the way Cas had felt against him, the taste of chocolate and raspberries. His cheeks flame at the memory, and the relief he feels when Cas suddenly starts talking about getting them both a beer is almost indescribable. Nodding furiously, Dean lets himself be ushered into the kitchen – unsurprisingly, the intermittent cat is nowhere in sight, though the half-empty bowl on the floor suggests she was here through the afternoon – and while he pokes about in the fridge, another partygoer commandeers Cas to come and explain the collars again. This leaves Dean alone, and he ends up necking the whole beer in under a minute out of sheer nervousness before grabbing another one, because there's no way in hell he's going to survive tonight sober.

Somehow, he steadies himself enough to go and mingle, and ends up being rescued from total social awkwardness by, of all people, the frat buddy of Victor's he once witnessed blowing Cas. Which should be a whole other level of awkward all by itself; except that, as soon as the guy takes in Dean's collar – he's wearing purple, himself – he gives him a wide-eyed grin and beckons him over. 

'Hey, man, thanks for not outing me,' he says, sincerely. 'I owe you one.' 

Dean blinks. 'Outing you?'

'To Victor and the guys, you know.' He gives a sheepish, self-conscious grin. 'They don't exactly know I come to these parties. Figured if I saw anyone here who knows me, they'd be too embarrassed to admit they were here, too, but everyone knows you live here now; you've got the perfect excuse.' He holds out a hand. 'I'm Inias.' 

'Dean,' says Dean. They shake, and somehow everything gets a little bit easier after that. Inias is friendly and attractive in a floppy-haired, skinny kind of way, but he doesn't hit on Dean, which is weirdly relieving. Though it makes him uncomfortable to admit it, part of him has worried that openly admitting to being whatever he is would suddenly mean an absence of platonic conversations with guys, but either because of the whole you-blew-my-housemate thing or some other lack of chemistry, they end up talking sports instead. Which is completely incongruous at a Brothel party, and therefore somehow all the more satisfying for it, and when another guy in a studded green collar comes up, wraps his arms around Inias and kisses the back of his neck, it doesn't change a damn thing, except that Dean feels somehow, impossibly, lighter.

Until he looks around for Cas, and sees him entwined with a scruffy blonde guy in a purple collar. The stranger has his arm looped around Castiel's shoulders, pulling him close to murmur something directly into Cas's ear, and whatever it is must be funny as hell, because Castiel almost doubles over laughing, pressing his face into the dude's shoulder. 

Dean feels like he's been kicked in the stomach.

Which is ridiculous. Cas is his  _housemate_ , for crying out loud, and newly resolved crisis of sexuality or not, you don't fuck where you sleep, because that way lies broken friendships and madness. Shit, even Victor knows that much, and Victor's romantic history achieves the almost unparalleled feat of being worse than Dean's. Just because he's comfortable acknowledging that Castiel is stupidly hot doesn't magically mean he's entitled to his attention – hell, it doesn't even mean he wants to sleep with him (though Cas and his Inigo Montoya quotes might have something to say about that, too; Denial is not just a river in Egypt).

Then the blonde, whoever he is, starts kissing Cas, who returns the favour with typical enthusiasm, and Dean has to turn away, because it's that or break something. 

'Oh, dude,' says Inias, and the look on his face is pure sympathy. 'Save yourself the trouble and don't. Just don't even go there. Not like  _that_ , anyway.'

'C'mon, do I look like a total idiot?' Dean says, forcing a smile. 'I mean, Jesus, I live with the guy. You think I don't know what he's like?' 

Inias's maybe-boyfriend, Aaron, snorts. 'You think that's ever stopped anyone else who comes to these things? It's human nature, dude. People want what they can't have, and a guy who sleeps with everyone once and no one twice is pretty much the epitome of forbidden emotional fruit. Plus, he's gorgeous.'

'Hey, no arguments here,' says Dean. He glances around the room, searching for something to take his mind off Cas – and finds it in the form of a slender brunette, standing by herself against the far wall. She's wearing a plain tank and a denim miniskirt, an unstudded white collar, and a look on her face like maybe she wants Dean to distract her, too. He grins at her, and when she smiles back, he winks at Inias and Aaron and heads on over to say hello.

The girl's name is Lisa. She's a freshman studying English, and only came to the party because she lost a bet with one of her friends, who came in with her but has since disappeared out back with a guy called Mark, who Lisa thinks is a total loser – but hey, no accounting for taste, right? She has a wide, perfect smile, a killer figure, and right now, she's exactly the type of normal Dean needs to anchor himself to reality. So he flirts, and gets them both another drink, and another one after that, and when he boldly reaches down to wrap an arm around Lisa's waist, she leans into him rather than away, and after weeks of sexual frustration, Dean's entire body almost groans with relief. 

From out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of Castiel, his vest now unbuttoned and shirt untucked, standing with his arm around the same blonde guy's neck. There's a brief frisson of awkwardness before Dean thinks,  _Fuck it_ , and cuts Lisa off mid-sentence with a kiss. She makes a surprised noise, then opens her mouth and kisses back, and all at once, Dean's hands are full of her curves as she backs him over onto the lounge and straddles him. Dean grips her hips, hands sliding along her thighs as she chases his tongue, and in return, Lisa grinds down on him, biting his lip, her fingers running through his hair. 

'You live here, right?' she murmurs, pulling away to kiss the side of his neck. 'Where's your room?' 

By way of answer, Dean hooks his hands under her ass, shoves forward on the lounge and stands up, still holding her; Lisa lets out a happy shriek and wraps her legs around him, and somehow Dean manages to stagger the few meters to his bedroom door and open it without letting her fall. He kicks the door shut to the sound of drunken cheering – though whether it's meant for him and Lisa or some other hookup, he doesn't know – and lays her down on the bed, kissing her as she writhes under him, hands digging at his back. 

There's a sudden bang from Cas's room, followed by the sound of male voices through their shared wall, and Dean has just enough spare brain to realise that Cas is next door with a partner, too, before Lisa sucks his earlobe into her mouth, and then he's straight back to business. He takes his time with her, kissing her throat and shoulders before he ever so much as lifts her top. When he does, though, she wriggles out of it eagerly, revealing a frankly stunning pair of DDs in a lacy white bra, which Dean knows better than to try and remove in a hurry. Instead, he kisses down her chest, gently sucking the swell of her breast into his mouth, eliciting a gasp of pleasure. He does the same on the other side, too, hard enough to leave a bright red mark, and Lisa whimpers approval.

Smiling, Dean kisses along her stomach (ignoring, as he unbuttons her skirt and pulls it down over her raised hips, the laughter coming from next door), then down the inside of her left thigh. Lisa shivers and gasps, and when he reaches the crook of her knee, Dean lowers himself off the edge of the bed and removes her heels. As Lisa stares down at him, wide-eyed, he takes a moment to discard his own shoes and shirt, then grins at her and starts kissing his way back up her body, mouth moving up her right thigh until he reaches her panties. Gently, he traces her lips through the damp cotton, eliciting a moan – and then he moves his hand away, sliding it over the curve of her hip as he comes up to kiss her mouth. 

Lisa rakes her nails up his sides, legs wrapping around his waist as she rubs up against him; Dean makes a choked noise, the friction catching the seam of his jeans directly against his cock, then grips the underside of her arms and rolls them over, putting her on top. Lisa laughs like this is exactly what she wants, leaning down to kiss him again, and that's when Dean finally reaches back to unhook her bra, which he manages on the first try. Lisa shrugs out of the straps and throws it aside, and when she leans over him, palms braced on the mattress, Dean sucks a nipple into his mouth, tongue teasing the bud as he splays a palm across her hip.

' _Fuck_ ,' Lisa groans, and reaches down to unzip his jeans, shimmying down his legs to pull them free and taking his boxers with them. Smiling wickedly, she crawls back up the bed and, without warning, takes him in her mouth. Dean moans aloud, gripping the sheets as she sucks him off. It's not the best blowjob he's ever had, but it's definitely one of the most welcome, and he relaxes into it, shivering a little as she uses her other hand to stroke his balls.

An obscene noise drifts through from next door, and given that Cas is in there with a guy, there's no way Dean should be able to tell that his housemate's the one making it – and yet he knows, and he can't help responding: he jerks his hips, thrusting up into Lisa's mouth, eliciting a shocked, pleased noise. She hums in her throat, taking him deeper, then pulls off, smirking as she lies down along his body. Taking the hint, Dean slips her panties down, and Lisa wriggles the rest of the way out of them, kicking them off the bed. They start kissing again, more urgent now; Dean rolls them back over, letting his hand move slowly downwards, and Lisa moves her hips wider, making room for him. Dean dips his fingers in her wet heat, then circles her clit, slow and fast, fast and slow, until she's arching up against him, her breathing punctuated with pleased gasps. 

'Condom?' she chokes out, and Dean fumbles hastily in the bedside drawer, passing the foil packet to Lisa, who rips it open and reaches down to roll it over his length. Dean makes a needy sound in the back of his throat as she guides him in, those long legs once more coming up to wrap around his back. Dean starts thrusting into her, gently at first, then harder and faster as she opens up, her ankles locked as she urges him on. 

Something bumps into the shared wall, hard enough to rattle Dean's desk, and Cas groans again, his pleasure unmistakeable. Dean shuts his eyes and presses his head to Lisa's collarbone, trying to block out the sounds, to focus exclusively on her, but then there's another thump, and more moaning, both sounds taking on a rhythm, and all at once he realises exactly what's happening: Cas is standing upright, his palms braced on the plasterboard while someone else fucks him from behind, and oh,  _Jesus_ . 

Lisa rocks her hips, swivelling in a way that has Dean gasping for breath; she's panting, head tipped back, and Dean shifts his weight onto his left forearm, braced enough to slip his left hand back down between them, stroking her clit as they fuck. It's not a manoeuvre he can pull off for long – it twists his wrist in a way that threatens to cramp his hand – but then, it's effective enough that he usually doesn't need to, and Lisa looks to be no exception. She moans in turn, her noises mingling in his ears with the ones Cas is making, and suddenly Dean's doing everything he can to bring her over the edge, because it should be  _him_ in the next room,  _him_ fucking Castiel Novak hard enough to make him see stars, not some random stranger, and if all he can do instead is make Lisa scream loud and long enough for Cas to wonder what he's missing out on, then Dean will take it gladly. 

The wall shakes, and as Cas cries out again, Dean doesn't know whether he's more aroused or angrier than he's ever been in his life; he leans down and thrusts in deeper, hips stuttering as he gasps and sweats, and suddenly Lisa is keening, fingernails scoring lines in his back as she shudders and bucks against him, every muscle clenching as she comes. Dean fucks her through it, not pulling his hand away until she's almost sobbing through the aftershocks, and she feels fucking amazing, hot and wet and tight, but as close as her convulsions bring him to the edge, what finally tips him over is the sound of Cas in climax, a wordless cry that shoots right to Dean's core, and then he's coming, shouting in turn as he collapses onto Lisa, wrung out and shivering as he realises that Aaron was right, the smug bastard, and Inias, too.

Because for all that he's finished on top, Dean Winchester is absolutely, undeniably  _fucked_ . 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Despite the noise of the party, Dean falls asleep next to Lisa, one arm flung across her back. When he wakes up the next morning, though, she's gone, leaving behind nothing but a sense of bodily satisfaction and a phone number scrawled on a piece of paper beside the bed. Dean blinks at it, groans, and falls back against the mattress. Lisa was fun, but he already knows he's not going to call, because Castiel Novak is an oblivious, promiscuous jackass, and until Dean can get that fact through his own thick head, he's not fit to be dating anyone. His collar has unclipped in his sleep, the green plastic worming out from under his pillow like a small, strange snake. Dean picks it up, momentarily considers resigning it to the bin, then tucks it away in his bedside drawer instead. It's not like he can even blame last night's poor decision-making skills on being drunk; he spaced his drinks out over the evening and drank on a full stomach, and now he's not even hungover.

Sighing, he pulls on his robe and heads out to the lounge, expecting the house to be in its usual pristine state. But instead, the place is completely trashed. There's a strange guy passed out on the couch – Dean nudges him awake, apologises, and somehow manages to steer him out the door before he's conscious enough to protest – bottles and collars and cups everywhere, vomit in the bathroom sink (he takes care of that quickly, grimacing as he washes the mess away with a generous aftersplash of bleach) and an overall stench of sweat, sex and spilled beer. It's all so incongruous, it takes him a minute to realise that it's only like this because Cas isn't up yet, even though it's after nine, and then his stomach clenches in sick horror. Cas _always_ cleans first thing on Saturday, and if he hasn't – if something's happened, if that fucking blonde guy hurt him –

Dean moves so fast, he almost wrenches something, stumbling from the kitchen to Cas's room and shoving the door open.

His housemate is passed out on the floor, buck naked, one cheek stuck in a pool of cold vomit, bruises on his hips. Dean lets out a noise that's somewhere between a wail and a sob, crashing to his knees as he pulls Cas into his lap, hands shaking as he feels for a pulse. It's thready, but it's there, and as Cas stirs weakly, murmuring protest against Dean's robe, he almost cries with relief.

'Cas, you idiot,' Dean whispers, stroking a hand through his hair, 'you stupid, self-destructive –'

'Thirsty,' Cas croaks, shuddering as he presses his face into Dean's knee. 'Too bright.'

'C'mon, then. Get up, we'll get you something. Gotta get cleaned up, Cas, you stink like a sewer.' Dean gets an arm around Cas's shoulders, helping him sway back onto his knees. He's shivering, boneless as a stroked cat. Dean hauls them both upright, and for all his muscle, Cas's weight against him feels like nothing. Blearily, he blinks up at Dean through sleep-crusted eyes, the whites yellowed and bloodshot. 'Dean?'

'You take any pills last night?' Dean asks, trying to cover his concern with gruff practicality. 'Or just booze?'

'I don't – I don't think so.' He gulps. 'Can't remember.'

Biting back the urge to tell Cas he's an idiot, Dean gently levers him into the shower stall, helping him sit upright with his back to the wall. The shower head is one of those detachable dealies on a long cord, so Dean turns it on and pulls it down, waiting until the water warms up before pushing it into Cas's hands, making sure he keeps the stream turned firmly on himself.

'Can you hold it there?' he asks, because Cas is still shaking.

'Yes. Dean, I –'

'Wait there, then. And try not to drown yourself.'

Leaving Cas in the shower, he hurries off to clean his housemate's room, mopping up the vomit with kitchen towels and spraying the boards with some antibacterial stuff he found under the sink. He doesn't often go in Cas's room, so once it's done, he takes a moment to check the place out, looking for hazards, and is completely unsurprised to find that his bedside drawers, in addition to containing a healthy supply of lube and condoms, are full of pill bottles.

Scowling, Dean stalks back to the bathroom, his expression softening at the look of abject misery on Castiel's face. His knees are drawn up to his chest, wet hair plastered against his skull – he's managed to wash the sick off his skin, at least – and some of the colour has come back to his cheeks. Wordlessly, Dean grabs Cas's toothbrush and oozes a generous blob of Colgate onto the bristles, handing it to him with a pointed look.

'Thanks,' says Cas meekly, and switches to holding the shower head one-handed as he brushes his teeth. Dean rolls his eyes and heads back out again.

After a moment's thought, he strips the linen off both their beds and shoves it all in the wash, grabbing clean things out of the cupboard and making up each room anew, though in a small, petty vengeance, he gives Cas his least favourite sheets, the paisley set he always complains is 'too loud', whatever that means. Then he grabs a clean pair of sweats and boxers from Cas's bureau, plus a clean towel from the cupboard, and returns to the bathroom, laying the clothes out on the toilet lid and holding the towel open and out like he's going to fold it.

'Up,' he instructs. 'C'mon, Cas.'

'Dean, you don't have to –'

'Did I give you the impression I was asking?' Dean snaps, more sharply than he intended. Cas flinches, and Dean forces himself to take a steadying breath. 'You scared the living crap out of me, Cas, you know that? So just, just let me do this, OK? Let me, for once, take care of you, because you're sure as hell not taking care of yourself.' And he reaches into the shower and turns the water off.

As Castiel straightens up, Dean holds out the towel like a shield, pointedly keeping his gaze on Cas's shoulders. Hunched and miserable-looking, Cas lets himself be wrapped, stepping into the towel – and, by extension, Dean's arms – without any more protest. And because Dean is apparently exactly that pathetic, he lets himself hug Cas close, just briefly, pinning him there in a warm cocoon, breathing the clean scent of him.

'You're not taking anything today, OK?' he says, rubbing his hands over Castiel's back, finding an excuse for touch in the act of patting him dry. 'I mean it. No uppers, no downers, no weed – your body needs a rest, and I know you can go without.' Dean stills, moving his hands to Cas's shoulders, and looks him in the eye, finally voicing his biggest worry. 'Unless, of course, you can't.'

'I can,' says Cas, a flash of hurt on his face. 'I'm not an addict, Dean.'

Dean lets out a breath he wasn't conscious of holding. He knows Cas could be lying – hell, it's what addicts do – but part of him is relieved all the same. 'Prove it, then,' he says, running the towel down Cas's arms. 'Go a week without taking anything. Give next Friday a miss.'

'I said I'm not an addict. I'm _not_.' He looks away, jaw twitching. 'I don't take any one thing often enough to get dependent on it.'

'Doesn't mean you don't still have a problem,' says Dean, and Cas's head snaps back up, eyes blazing as he grabs the towel and jerks away, wrapping it around himself.

' _Fuck_ you, Dean. You don't get to judge me, you don't know – you don't fucking know anything, OK? I do what I have to.' He dries himself angrily, dropping the towel to drag on his clean things, and Dean averts his gaze, swallowing against a lump in his throat. There's an awkward silence, and when he turns back, Cas is standing across from him, arms wrapped around his chest and two high spots of colour standing out on his cheeks. They stare at each other, and for a moment, the urge to close the gap between them and kiss Cas is almost overwhelming – but he doesn't, because Cas is pissed, and Dean pushed too hard, and this is already so fucked up, he can't bear the thought of making it worse.

Castiel seems to have a similar epiphany. 'I – I'll try,' he murmurs, staring at the floor. 'I'll stay off it all today, like you said, give myself a rest. And I'll go easy, this week. If I can. But I'm like this for a reason, Dean.' He looks up again, and the naked hurt in his eyes is almost unbearable. 'I know you think my scripts are fake, that I take all this crap for the fun of it, but they're not, and I don't. God, if I even thought I could, if I didn't – but I'm not addicted, that's not the problem, it's me, I'm more fucked up when I'm _not_ fucked up, and all this crap, the parties, the Brothel, I'm always going to be a freak –' his voice cracks, the words hard and hoarse, '– but at least this way I get some fun out of it, at least this way I can feel, I can touch, I –' He chokes off, and suddenly he's shoving his way past Dean, out into the hall and back to his room. He slams the door hard enough to rattle the walls, and Dean just stands there, dazed and aching and not sure which of them he should hate more, himself for upsetting Cas or Cas for keeping secrets.

And then, because it's the only thing he can still fix, he cleans up the rest of the house.

 

*

 

Dean doesn't see Cas the rest of the day. He emerges at least twice – once to raid the fridge, and once to go to the bathroom – but seemingly times the trips for when Dean's in his own room, and Dean feels awkwardly enough about the whole thing that he doesn't try to intercept him. There's a bunch of unanswered texts on his phone from Charlie and Victor asking him where he went last night, if he wants to come back out again, but Dean just curls up under the covers and marathons the original _Star Wars_ trilogy on his laptop, pausing only to order pizza and, twenty minutes later, let in the delivery guy. It's only then that Dean realises he's bought two pizzas on autopilot, his and Cas's regular order. Wincing, he takes both boxes, but leaves the one with Cas's preferred toppings – olives, mushrooms, peppers and pepperoni – on the kitchen table.

Then he makes himself knock on his housemate's door.

'Cas? There's pizza if you want some.' More softly, he adds, 'I'm sorry, man. You can talk to me, if you want.'

No answer.

Dean sighs and heads back into his room, and ends up falling asleep with his laptop on his stomach and one arm wrapped around an almost-empty pizza box.

 

*

 

It's noon on Sunday before Dean sees Cas again. He slinks out of his room, not quite making eye contact on his way to the kitchen, as feigned-casual as the intermittent cat when she's trying to pretend, against all evidence to the contrary, that she isn't, in fact, intermittent. Dean's watching some trashy action sequel on Netflix, and so doesn't pay much attention to the sound of the microwave humming in the background, until suddenly Cas is sitting beside him, silently proffering a fresh bowl of popcorn.

Dean blinks, surprised. 'I thought you didn't like popcorn.'

'Not really,' says Cas. 'But you do.' He fiddles with one of the leather cords he wears around his wrist, a nervous habit. He looks pale, but his eyes are clear, and neither his hands nor his words are jittery. 'No one's ever lived with me this long before.'

'That's because you're an ass,' says Dean, grabbing a handful of popcorn and shoving it in his face. 'Also, your apology tastes like styrofoam.'

Cas's lips twitch, as if he's smiling against his better judgement. 'All popcorn tastes like styrofoam, Dean.'

'Your mouth moves, words come out, but all I hear is _blah blah blah, I'm an incompetent hippy who can't use a microwave_. Did you even put any butter on this?'

'I would've done, if we had any.'

'Hey, you're the one who's meant to buy all the groceries.'

'Technically, butter isn't a grocery.'

Dean grins. 'Is it a carb, though?'

Cas makes a face. 'A _Mean Girls_ reference? Seriously? What is this, 2004?'

'Hey, protest all you want, but I'm not the reason it's on our Recently Watched list.'

'In my defence,' says Cas, 'I was high at the time.'

'You're always high,' says Dean, and though his stomach still twists a little, somehow they're able to keep up the banter, sliding back into their rhythms like the last two days never happened.

That evening, they drive to the store and restock the fridge, and Dean surprises them both by cooking a batch of half-decent bolognese. Cas wolfs his down, and they wrap up the evening by binge-watching _House_. Which perhaps isn't the best choice of show, given that the lead character has a Vicodin addiction and Vicodin, as Dean well knows, is one of the pills for which Cas has an apparently legitimate script, though he doesn't take it often. But as best he can tell, his housemate has kept his word and kept himself sober, and when they say goodnight, Dean feels better than he has since Friday morning.

 

*

 

'What the hell is up with you?' Victor grumbles, eyeing Dean over the top of his tuna wrap. 'First you skip out on drinks, then you vanish for a whole weekend? What gives?'

Dean rolls his eyes. 'Nothing gives. Stop being a drama queen, dude.'

'I dunno,' says Charlie, doubtfully. 'He's kind of got a point. You've been acting weird for a while, and don't try to fob me off with that I'm-just-worried-about-my-ridiculous-housemate excuse again, either, because –'

'He's not ridiculous,' Dean says, hotly. 'And it's not an excuse, either. I really am worried about him. Or I was, at least,' he amends, thinking of yesterday.

'If this is Castiel you're talking about,' says a cultured, British voice, 'then you have definite grounds for concern.'

Dean turns, fighting the urge to growl as Bela Talbot helps herself to the free chair at their table. A third year psychology student, she's friends with Victor's housemates, but for all her sharp humour and good looks, there's a coldness to her that Dean doesn't like, and her sudden appearance raises his hackles.

'Hello, Dean,' she says, helping herself to one of his fries. 'Tell me, how's Cas doing these days?'

'He's fine,' Dean says, guardedly. 'What's it to you?'

Bela stretches in her chair, as smug as a cream-filled cat. 'Psychology is such a wonderful discipline, don't you think? Such intriguing case studies. All subjects kept anonymous for publication, of course, but that's the thing about human nature. Even professionals gossip. And I just heard the most _fascinating_ story, so naturally, I thought of you.' She smiles slyly, not waiting for Dean to take the bait. 'Do you know what happens to children who suffer extreme neglect in early childhood? I don't mean physical beatings, emotional manipulation – I mean the literal deprivation of touch. Just that one thing has an incredible impact on so many aspects of development, it's staggering. Raise a child without consistent physical affection, and you damage them for life. There was quite a famous study into the affects of early neglect on Romanian orphans, and people have done experiments on monkeys, but when it comes to individual examples –'

'Is there a point to all this?' says Charlie, frowning. Victor looks similarly perplexed, but Dean's heart is pounding, because after what Cas said on Saturday – _at least this way I can feel, I can touch_ – there's only one place Bela can be going with this, and he both does and doesn't want to know.

'A few years ago, a rather intriguing case study started doing the rounds,' says Bela, fixing her eyes on Dean as though Charlie isn't there. 'An only child, male, raised by American parents who, despite their ostensible status as functional, affluent members of society, refused to touch him. He had nannies to hold him as a baby, which likely saved him from the very worst attachment problems, but once he got a bit older, the nannies went away and the parents just... watched him. He was isolated, too – religious family, homeschooled right out the gate. Very strict thoughts on the nature of the relationship between sin and flesh, apparently; I think the mother paid through the nose to have him via IVF, the better to avoid the sweating impurities of copulation. His might well have been a literal virgin birth.' Her smile sharpens, and Dean resists an impulse to throttle her.

'So imagine this boy, growing up in virtual isolation. No idea what it feels like to be touched by someone, let alone held, though he sees it happening to other people. And then, one day, at the age of fifteen, his mother collapses while they're out in public. Some hitherto undiagnosed medical condition rearing its head, I forget the specifics.' Bela waves a hand. 'Anyway, an ambulance comes, and mother and son are taken straight to hospital. The mother is given a bed, the father is called – and then a nurse, acting out of clear concern for the emotional wellbeing of a distressed, lonely teenager, hugs the child who's never been hugged. Precipitating, in approximate chronological order, a complete psychological breakdown, the emancipation of a minor, child endangerment charges that are mysteriously dropped despite said emancipation, a lifetime of therapy, and – finally, many years later – the establishment of the Brothel and the adoption of a handsome Kansas-born housemate.'

Victor takes a moment to get it, then laughs out loud. 'You're such a bullshit artist. Even if that actually happened to someone, there's no way you'd know it was Castiel. Shit like that is beyond confidential; you didn't just hear your professors gossiping about it in the faculty lounge.'

'Are you really so sure of that?' Bela nods at Dean. 'Besides, he believes me. Look at him.'

Three sets of eyes fix on Dean, who stares back angrily, hands fisted on his thighs to keep them from shaking. 'Fuck you, Bela. Go spread your poison somewhere else. You don't know shit about Cas, and you never will.'

'Oh, Dean. Your poor, naïve darling.' Bela sighs, setting a manicured hand on his arm. 'A word of advice – don't fall for emotionally unavailable men, and especially not when they're so profoundly damaged that they have articles written about them. It only leads to tragedy.'

Dean jerks away from her, so furious he can barely breathe. 'Touch me again,' he growls, 'and I'll break your wrist.'

Bela flinches, but minutely, converting the motion into a shrug. She stands, stretching her arms over her heard. 'Hey, it's your funeral. But when the time comes, just remember I told you so.' And with that, she saunters away, heels clicking on the floor of the food court.

Charlie lets out a breath. 'Whaaaaat the fuck just happened? Seriously? Guys?'

But Dean doesn't answer, pushing sharply away from the table. 'I gotta go.'

'Hey, wait –' Victor starts, just as Charlie says, 'Dean, what are you –'

He's out of earshot before either can finish their question.

 

*

 

Technically, Dean has class after lunch on Monday, but right now, he doesn't think he can cope. He walks across campus, gulping in air and trying to calm his pulse, which is a pretty forlorn endeavour, because all he can think about is Cas, who's studying religion in pop culture; Cas, who has a script for just about every anti-anxiety drug on the market; Cas, who acts like a libertine when he's not living like a hermit; Cas, who wants everyone to touch him, wants to be _seen_ to be touched, but has to swallow a pharmacy first; Cas, who never sleeps with the same person twice.

Cas, who thinks he's a freak.

Dean stops on the edge of playing field, trying not to scream. Fuck Bela for telling him something he has no right to know; fuck her for knowing at all. He's appalled to realise he's almost crying and knuckles his eyelids, trying to stave off tears.

'Dean?'

He turns. It's Charlie, standing a few feet away. She must have followed him, and the look of concern on her face is more than Dean can handle.

'Why'd you let me move in with him?' he says, the words thick with grief. 'Why'd you do that, Charlie?'

'Bela was right,' she says, almost wonderingly. 'You really do have a crush on him.'

Dean makes a choked noise, and before he can say anything else, Charlie pulls him in for a hug, standing on tiptoes and curling a cool, soft hand around the back of his neck. She's tiny against him, all red hair and angles, and Dean presses his face to her shoulder and laughs, because it's that or cry.

'I'm such an idiot,' he says, voice muffled.

'Ordinarily, I'd agree with you,' says Charlie. 'Especially as you felt the need to keep this whole sexual identity crisis a secret, which is clearly insane, because hello! Lesbian!' She steps back, brows drawn together. 'But this, about Cas – why not just tell him how you feel?'

'Are you kidding me? Do I really have to list all the reasons why dating your promiscuous, emotionally damaged, drug-taking housemate is a bad idea?'

Charlie snorts. 'The other stuff, maybe, but emotionally damaged? Come on, Bela was just being a biatch. You can't seriously think...' She trails away at the look on Dean's face. 'Oh,' she says, softly. 'Oh, god.'

Dean feels utterly helpless. 'What do I do?'

'About what?'

'About knowing. I can't pretend I don't, that it doesn't change anything, and you know what Bela's like, she's probably told everyone and their dog by now. If the story gets around, if someone asks him about it –' He breaks off, unable to finish the thought. He's seen Cas high and seen him crashing; seen him blacked out, freaked out, strung out, angry, lucid and at pretty much every other point on his vast emotional spectrum, and he still doesn't want to think about how he might react to learning that his traumatic personal history has become the subject of campus gossip. Dean gulps. 'I've got to tell him, Charlie. Even if he hates me for it, I can't let him find out by accident. It'll kill him.'

Charlie opens her mouth. Shuts it again. 'Are you sure?' she says at last. 'I mean, it's not like you know for sure he'll find out –'

'I have to tell him,' Dean says heavily, and when Charlie doesn't protest, he knows it's the right decision.

Even if Cas never speaks to him again.

 


	5. Chapter 5

_Hey, Cas, you know your terrible dark secret? Well, just a heads up, but someone in the psychology department outed you as a case study, so it's not so much a secret now as it is, you know. Gossip. Wanna order some Thai food and talk about it?_

The whole way home, Dean tries and fails to think up ways to break the news gently, each new conversational gambit worse than the last. The fact that he gets a text from Charlie while en route saying that she's already heard at least one other person talking about Castiel's 'traumatic childhood' does nothing to lower his stress levels, and by the time he reaches the house, he's given up and started fantasising about increasingly creative ways of getting Bela expelled and, for preference, shipped straight back to England as freight.

Dean enters tentatively, not sure if Castiel is asleep, or what he might be doing if he isn't, and is mildly surprised to find him stretched out on the lounge watching what appears to be a nature documentary, the intermittent cat curled up on his chest like a fluffy, calico apostrophe.

Cas lifts his head, blinking. 'You're back early.'

'I skipped class,' Dean says. 'Didn't feel up to it, for some reason.'

'Are you OK?' Cas sits up a little further, earning himself a warning growl from the cat. 'You're not sick or anything, are you?'

'No, no. Just tired, I think. Or, I don't know.' Dean runs a hand through his hair. 'Burnt out, maybe? Anyway, I can afford to miss it. So here I am.'

'Fair enough,' says Cas, after a moment. 'Um. Do you want me to get up? Or we can put something else on – I mean, I'm not really watching. The cat picked the movie.'

'The _cat?_ ' Dean snorts, smiling despite himself. 'You're seriously telling me a cat decided to watch a program about wolves?'

'Know thy enemy,' Cas intones, skritching the cat behind her ears. She starts to purr loudly, mismatched paws kneading his chest. 'Or at least, I assume that's what she was thinking when she stood on the remote.'

'You really should name her,' says Dean, coming to sit beside them on the floor. He snags a cushion for his ass and rests his back against the couch, pulse quickening slightly at the warm weight of Cas's leg against his shoulders. 'Or at least, find a plausible abbreviation for 'intermittent cat'. Inti? Itti? Tiny? Tiny could work.'

'You don't name cats,' says Castiel, like this is the most obvious thing in the world. 'They name themselves.'

'Of course they do,' says Dean, rolling his eyes. 'Just gimme the damn remote.'

Their fingers brush as Cas complies, and Dean thinks, _I'll tell him later._

But despite his best intentions, he doesn't – not over dinner, and not in the hours that follow. Partly, it's down to fear: he doesn't know how Cas is going to react or what to say to minimise that reaction, which seems destined to be negative, but mostly it's because he can't bear to shatter Castiel's calm. This time on a Monday, he's usually either sweating and wired from uppers or frayed and groggy from the lack of them, and while he's still taking his pills – Dean sees him swallow two tablets with a glass of milk – he seems to actually be using them in moderation, as medication, rather than recklessly, or in reflex.

And there are other changes, too. His usual combination of boxers and kimono have been replaced by a pair of what Cas says are called fisherman's pants and a blue hemp shirt, the colour setting off his eyes, which are beautifully bright. Even his skin looks clearer, though his jaw is stubbled after the weekend, and it takes all Dean's willpower to keep from climbing into his lap and running his hands through that gorgeously tousled hair.

He doesn't tell him on Tuesday, either. Or Wednesday. Or Thursday. Twice, he almost works up the courage – and he knows he has to; he's already had some random guy come up to him after class and ask if the story's true – but they're having such a good week otherwise, and now that he knows the reasons for Cas's usual behaviour, it makes his improvement seem so much more significant. Dean doesn't want to devalue that, not even for a good cause, and while he still feels guilty about keeping silent, he tells himself he still has time, and stonewalls Charlie whenever she brings it up.

Cas, for his part, is calmer than Dean's ever seen him. He goes for a run every night and still seems to glow from the exercise the next morning, and for the first time in living memory, they go four consecutive days without eating some form of takeaway for dinner. The house feels happier, and Dean sleeps easier as a result, his decreased fear for Cas's wellbeing easing a burden he hadn't been conscious of carrying.

The only tense moment comes on Thursday evening while they're doing the washing up. Cas is stressing out over his thesis topic and whether or not he ought to change it, and gets distracted enough that he breaks a glass in the sink.

'Shit!' he yelps, staring at his hand. He's cut his hand open, a bright line of blood on the side of his palm, and the pain seems to paralyse him. Instantly, Dean drops the dishcloth and grabs Cas's wrist, examining the damage. The cut is only about half an inch long, but it's reasonably deep and bleeding profusely, and Cas is already shaking.

'Dean, I don't think I can – in my room, there's –'

'Hey, it's OK, Cas, you got this.' Dean flicks him a quick smile, grabbing a clean cloth from the drawer, wetting it and pressing it to the cut until Cas takes over. 'Just let me go get a Band-Aid and some cotton balls, I think there's some in the bathroom cabinet –'

'It's throbbing,' Cas says, and there's a panicked note in his voice, like the sensation is overwhelming him. 'My Vicodin, it's in the second drawer, the orange bottle, I just need one –'

'Cas. Look at me.' Dean inhales, those blue eyes sinking into him like hooks. 'You don't need something as strong as Vicodin for a cut this small. I know it hurts, I do, and if you just wait a second, we've got some Advil – hell, a couple fingers of whiskey would probably do a better job taking the edge off.'

Cas shakes his head, a tight, short gesture. 'You don't understand, I can't – it feels – it's too much, it's too _much_ , I can't –' And he starts to hyperventilate, still clutching his bloody hand.

'It's OK, Cas. I promise, it's OK.' Dean hesitates, then reaches out and cups his face, fingertips smoothing gently over Cas's cheekbones. Cas gasps and stares at him, pupils wide, but he doesn't pull away, his breathing still ragged and quick as Dean thumbs calming circles into his skin, slow and steady. 'It's OK,' he repeats, pulse racing at their proximity, at Castiel's distress. 'You're fine, Cas, I promise you're fine. Just breathe through it. Breathe like I do, OK?' He inhales slowly, holds for a count of three, then lets it out again, repeating the pattern until, on the third try, Cas starts to copy him. They breathe together, in and out, their gazes locked, Dean stroking Cas's temples. Steadily, Cas's breathing returns to normal, which is the point at which Dean should drop his hands and step away, mission accomplished.

But he doesn't. His mouth is dry, and he doesn't want to let Cas go. What he wants is to run his hands further into Cas's dark hair, wants to cradle his neck and kiss him, wants to press their bodies together, wants to get lost in the feel of him, wants –

'I think I'm all right now,' Cas croaks, and Dean jerks back like he's been burned.

'Right,' he says, cheeks flaming. 'Uh, Band-Aid and cotton balls, from the bathroom, I'm gonna –' he backs up, banging his hip on the kitchen table, '– just, uh, you, you – you still want that Advil, or –'

'Sure,' says Cas, who looks about as dazed as Dean feels. 'That, uh. Thanks.'

'Right,' says Dean, 'right,' and flees before he can make an even bigger ass of himself.

In the bathroom, he takes a moment to calm down, splashing cold water in his face and staring into the mirror. Thus fortified, he digs out the Advil, Band-Aids and cotton balls, and heads back out again, only to find that Cas has taken up a seat on the lounge. He's sitting at the far end, positioned so that his bad hand is up against the armrest, which means Dean can't sit next to him to apply the Band-Aid without either reaching across his body or pulling him closer, and after what just happened, that seems like a bad idea. Instead, he puts his supplies on the floor, grabs a glass of water from the kitchen, then kneels down behind the armrest, using it as a shield.

'Let me see,' he says.

Obediently, Cas holds out his hand, hissing a little as he lifts the bloody cloth away.

Dean eyes the cut critically, then wets a cotton ball, daubing gently. 'There, you're fine. See? It's already clotting a bit.' He presses a fresh bit of cotton to the cut, then carefully covers the whole thing with a Band-Aid, making sure it won't pull loose the second Cas moves his hand. He taps two painkillers out of the packet and passes them up, along with the rest of the water.

'Here,' Dean says, and watches Cas swallow the pills. 'You still want a bit of whiskey or something, too? I can put it in a hot chocolate, if you want.' He blinks, considering. 'Actually, I think we've still got some Baileys lying around, which would probably taste a whole lot better. Hell, if you don't have one, I think I might. But do you, though?'

'Do I what?' asks Cas, still sounding a little stunned.

'Want one,' Dean says, though part of him thinks, _Want me_. 'Hot chocolate and Baileys.'

'Oh. Um. Yes, please. That sounds... very pleasant.'

'Coming right up, then.' Dean gathers the mess and carries it into the kitchen – he'll put it all back later – and digs the Baileys out of the cupboard, mixing about a shot's worth in with the sugar, milk and cocoa powder. He heats both serves in a plastic bowl in the microwave, the way he always did for himself and Sammy when they were younger, then decants the contents into two mugs and takes them back to the lounge. This time, he sits beside Cas without any hesitation, and for almost a minute, they sit and sip in a silence broken only by Cas's murmured thanks. Then:

'How did you know to do that?' Cas asks. 'With the breathing, I mean?'

'Oh.' Dean stares at his mug, surprised by the sudden pang he feels. 'My mom has panic attacks. Or I mean, she did when I was younger. Dad used to drive long haul, so he was away a lot, and my kid brother, Sam, he nearly died when we were little – he was still a baby, there was a fire in the nursery and it was all OK, they put it out in time, but dad was away when it happened, and after that, mom used to freak out sometimes when he was gone, get scared that something bad would happen to us on her watch, and I'd have to calm her down.'

He shrugs, discomforted by the sudden realisation that he's never told anyone this before. 'It's not like I figured it out myself or anything – she went to the doctor after the first couple of times, and he told her what to do – but it seemed to work better if I helped. Last time it happened, I was sixteen, Sammy was twelve. It was just after the divorce, and she hadn't had one in ages, but I guess being alone with us again brought it all back up.'

'Your parents are divorced?' says Cas, surprised. 'I didn't realise.'

'I don't really talk about it,' Dean admits. 'I mean, they both still live in the same town, and it's not like they hate each other or get in screaming matches or anything, but things were rocky with them for a while, and then after the stuff with Adam –' He breaks off, abruptly self-conscious. 'Sorry, man. I didn't mean to ramble at you.'

Cas bumps their knees together, and a small thrill goes through Dean at the contact. 'Hey, I asked. Not that you have to tell me if you don't want to,' he adds, hastily. 'I just mean I'm happy listening.'

'That's all right,' says Dean. He sips his hot chocolate, trying not to read anything into the fact that their legs are still touching, and wonders briefly if he should just leave things there. But this is Cas, and there's no reason to lie to him. _Not about this, at least._

'My dad cheated,' he says, quietly. 'I mean, like... _really_ cheated. He had this whole other life from when he was trucking, a woman in another part of the country. Not that she knew about us, either – at least, I don't think she did – but he had another kid with her, too. Adam. He was a few years younger than Sam, and the only reason we ever found out that he and his mom existed was because they died.' He grips his mug, the old surge of bitterness there and gone like a flash flood. 'It was a car crash. Dad was her emergency contact, and when the cops rang for him, mom was the one who picked up. Not a fun month in the Winchester household.' He gives a small laugh. 'But, you know, we pulled through OK.'

Cas chews his lip. 'I have a question, but I'm not sure it's appropriate.'

Dean smiles at him. 'You can ask me anything, Cas, you know that.'

'All right.' He twists his fingers around his mug, the hurt hand held at a slightly odd angle. 'What you said last week, about your father and his... opinions. You seemed very loyal to him, very trusting of his judgement even now, and yet he betrayed your family.' Cas looks at him, and there's something so lost in his expression, Dean cracks a little inside. 'I don't understand how you reconcile it all, how you can defend him even on other matters.'

'Neither do I, really.' He sighs. 'It's complicated, Cas. What he did to my mom, how he hurt her – I'll never forgive him for that. She tried so hard when he was gone, worried so much about whether she was doing a good job, and all the time, he was cheating on her, raising another woman's kid. Who even does something like that? If I think about it for too long, it makes me wanna break stuff. But he's still my dad, you know? He still raised me, still took me to ball games and tucked me in, all that crap, and just because he did it for Adam, too – I mean, kids are different, right? You can't betray your son by loving his brother, unless you love one of them more, and in the end, it was us he spent the most time with. Way I figure it, Adam got the shittier end of that deal, so what right do I have to be pissed? Dad loves Sammy, too, that doesn't change how he feels about me.

'And I guess... I don't know. Maybe I'd be angrier if Sammy wasn't still at home, if I felt like it would help, but he is, and it won't. I mean, I was furious at the time, don't get me wrong, but all it did was make mom sad, and I didn't want that, either. So now I just try and accept it, you know? He was a shitty husband but an OK dad, and I don't know whether that makes him a good man or a bad one or a little of both, but if I had to choose, I'd rather be like mom than him, and if she can figure out how to not be angry all the time, then I've got no excuse.'

Cas just looks at him, lips parted, and for a moment, Dean is worried he's talked too much, or said the wrong thing, or made a fool of himself. But then Cas smiles – this slow, wondering expression, like Dean is this amazing new creature he didn't know existed, and oh, god, Dean would sell his soul to have Cas look at him like that every day, because he's so goddamn beautiful it almost hurts.

'You're a good man, Dean,' says Cas, and the press of his leg is a line of fire against Dean's own. 'I – I don't have a lot of experience with the species, to be sure, but you definitely qualify.'

Dean gets so tongue-tied at that, he has to drain the rest of his hot chocolate before he can finally manage to say, 'Thanks, Cas. And, uh. For the record, you are, too.'

'Thank you,' says Cas, his cheeks similarly flushed, and as they look at each other, there's a moment when anything could happen.

Which is brutally interrupted by a splash and a crash from the kitchen, followed by an angry, wailing yowl. Startled, Dean and Cas both leap to their feet, running in to see what's happened.

The intermittent cat glares up at them from a sudsy puddle on the floor, a newly chipped plate beside her.

' _Rrrroooowwwwwww_ ,' she says, flattening her ears, and it's not until Dean notices the open window that he puts it together. Thanks to Cas's accident, the washing up – and, by extension, the washing up _water_ – are still in the sink, which is where the cat usually lands when she jumps in the window. He looks at Cas, and the two of them burst out laughing, prompting the cat to scuttle off and sulk elsewhere.

'Come on,' says Dean, chuckling. 'We might as well finish up. But this time, you're drying.'

'Noted,' says Cas, 'so long as you remember there's glass in the water.'

'Will do,' says Dean, and after that, it's business as usual: clean dishes, Netflix, and – eventually – bed.

Their separate, partnerless beds.

Dean lies awake for a long time after he turns his lights off, thinking back over what Charlie said on Monday. Maybe telling Cas how he feels isn't such a crazy idea, after all. Maybe Bela's story will blow over without Dean ever having to mention it, and eventually, when Cas tells him the truth on his own initiative, Dean can confess that he always knew, that he's always thought Cas is extraordinary, ever since that first kiss –

He falls asleep smiling, and when he wakes up, it's Friday.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Dean takes his time in the shower, and when he emerges, the whole house smells like bacon and maple syrup. A thread of trepidation twines through his stomach. Though they haven't discussed it, he's been hoping that Cas will want to forego the usual weekend festivities – this close to the end of semester, most people have started studying anyway – and he doesn't know whether the presence of their regular Friday breakfast is a good sign or a bad one. But when he walks into the kitchen, it's impossible to feel anything other than happiness as Cas, dressed in jeans and one of his many hemp shirts, waves for Dean to take his usual seat.

'I wrote almost a whole chapter on my thesis last night,' he says, setting a plate of bacon and pancakes in front of Dean. 'I even managed to work in that thing about Roadrunner and Wiley Coyote representing man's pursuit of the divine in the section on audience interpretation.' He takes his own seat, grinning as he doses his entire meal in maple syrup. 'This clarity thing has taken me to a whole new level.'

Dean barks with laughter. 'Did you seriously just quote _Clueless_?'

Cas points an accusing fork at him. 'Hey, if Jane Austen had been alive in the nineties, even she would've liked Cher and Dion. That film is a classic.'

'This from the guy who not five days ago was giving me shit for a _Mean Girls_ reference?' He takes a bite of the pancakes and groans in appreciation. 'Oh my god, what the hell did you put in these things, LSD? It's like I can taste colours.'

'Technically, cinnamon is a hue. But I'm glad you like them.'

'Like them? Dude, I am having seriously non-platonic feelings about this breakfast. I want to marry it and have its breakfast babies.'

'At which point, presumably,' says Cas, 'you will devour your tasty young, like the titan Cronus.'

'Obviously,' says Dean, shoving bacon into his face, 'though I feel obliged to point out that I only know who Cronus is because you made me watch _Xena_.'

'Philistine,' Cas mutters, and Dean is about to reply when someone knocks on the front door.

They look at each other, both surprised.

'You expecting anyone?' Dean asks.

'No. You?'

'No, but I'll answer it. Wait there.'

Forking the last piece of pancake into his mouth – because seriously, those things are fucking delicious – Dean walks to the door and opens it.

'Hello?' he says, staring confusedly at an unfamiliar girl. She's short, pale and curvy, with thick black hair and a heart-shaped face, and she looks Dean over with all the smoky indifference of a cat.

'You're not Castiel,' she says. 'But he does live here, right?'

Dean's heart starts to beat faster. 'Who are you?'

'Meg Masters. I'm a journalism major. Can I come in?' She moves to do exactly that, and Dean only just blocks her in time.

'Yeah, I'm thinking not.' He folds his arms, trying desperately to keep his face calm, his voice low. 'I know what you're going to ask, and the answer's no.'

She smirks. 'My, aren't you the knight in shining armour. Bela was right.'

'Bela can get fucked,' Dean snaps, 'and so can you.'

'Oh, like that'll help. The cat's out of the bag, Lancelot, and no amount of growling from you is going to shove it back in. Look, I promise to be respectful, but he deserves a chance to tell his story in his own words, give a proper interview. That kind of trauma –'

'Go to hell,' Dean snarls, and slams the door in her face.

He stands there, breathing heavily, waiting until the sound of her footsteps has faded away.

'Why does a journalism major want to interview me?'

Dean whirls, suddenly drymouthed, because Cas is standing right there, head cocked.

'I, uh, I don't –'

'You said you knew.' Cas takes a step forward, frowning. 'You said you knew why she was here. You were angry about it.' A frightened note creeps into his voice. 'Dean, what's going on?'

'Cas, I swear I was going to tell you, I just didn't know how, I didn't –' he presses his palms to his thighs, trying to keep from shaking, '– there's this psych student, Bela, and she overheard one of her professors talking about this case study on childhood neglect, how it was really about you –' Cas's eyes go wide with shock; he jerks away, but Dean keeps going, his voice pleading, needing to get it all out, '– and she's been telling people, and oh, god, Cas, I'm so sorry, I meant to warn you but I just, you've had such a good week, I didn't want to upset you, I didn't –'

' _Upset_ me?' Cas says. The words sound cracked. 'You didn't think keeping this from me would be _upsetting_? You didn't think finding out like this that, that people are – that people _know_ – that I – oh, god – you didn't think –' he laughs, a wild, broken sound, '– well, _consider me fucking upset,_ Dean!'

'Cas –' Dean reaches for him, but Cas shoves him furiously away, hard enough that Dean crashes back into the door.

' _Don't you fucking touch me!_ ' Cas shouts, arms wrapped tight around his chest. He's breathing too fast, a pained gulp-hitch in the sound like he's fighting a losing battle against tears, and when he looks at Dean, his eyes are wet. 'God, you _knew_?' he whispers, and the quiet horror in his voice is like a bomb going off. 'All this week, you've been so patient with me, and I thought – I actually thought – but it was just, just _pity_ –' he spits the word, crying in earnest now, '– you've been _pitying_ me, you selfish, insincere _traitor_ –'

'Cas, please –'

'Get out.' He lifts his chin, lips trembling. 'Get out, Dean. Right now.'

Dean feels like he's going to be sick. 'Cas, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry –'

' _Get out!_ ' Cas screams, pushing him again, one hand fumbling for the door and wrenching it open as the other shoves Dean through, out onto the path. He staggers to a halt, staring desperately back at Cas, at the look of furious grief on his face, hating himself for having been the one to put it there but hoping, still, absurdly, that he can fix this, that he can take it back –

The door slams shut on him, just like it did on Meg, and Dean is left alone.

 

*

 

He goes through the day like a robot.

He can't take notes in class, or buy lunch, or even text Cas to apologise, because Cas threw him out of the house without his phone, books, pens, wallet or anything else he usually takes with him, and he couldn't go back inside, because _Cas threw him out_ , and if he thinks about that too hard, he's going to break in half. He avoids the cafeteria, because Charlie and Victor will be there, and anyway, he's got no money for the food he doesn't feel like eating, so he heads to the library instead, because it's the one place on campus where he won't be bothered.

He's almost at the doors when a familiar voice calls out, 'Hey, Dean!'

He stops, but doesn't turn, waiting for Charlie to circle around in front of him. He doesn't want to look at her, but she stands there with her hands on her hips, demanding attention. 'What the hell, dude? You don't answer your phone, you don't come to lunch –'

'Cas knows.' He forces his gaze up, voice raw, and Charlie freezes. 'He threw me out. Some student came to the house, some girl, and I hadn't told him –' Dean runs a hand over his eyes, trying not to cry, because he's the one who fucked up, he doesn't get to be sad, too, '– and the look on his _face_ , I can't – oh, god, he's never going to forgive me, I –'

'Oh, Dean. Here. C'mere,' she says, and just like on Monday, she hugs him, tiny and fierce. Dean keeps his arms by his side, not certain he deserves the comfort, and when Charlie pulls back, she looks worried. 'Just because he was mad this morning doesn't mean he'll stay that way, right? I mean, you said he was doing better, being more responsible –'

'You didn't see him, Charlie. And it's Friday.'

'What does that – oh. Oh.' She bites her lip. ' _Shit_.'

'I don't know what to do.' The admission feels like snapping a rib. 'I have to go back tonight, I have to make sure he's OK, and I know I've got no right to try and stop him sleeping around, but I don't think I can just sit back and watch him do it, either, and if he takes too much, if he gets drunk again...'

'Do you want me to come with you?'

'What?'

'Tonight,' says Charlie. 'Do you want me to come with you?'

'Maybe. I don't know.' And then, in a sudden burst of words, 'God, he could be overdosing, he could be passed out again or drunk or fucked up, he could be having another panic attack, and I can't _do_ _anything_ , and if I go home tonight, and I find him – if I don't find him – god, I should go, I should go check on him right now, I need –' He starts to move off, but Charlie grabs his arm and squeezes, a gentle pressure.

'Dean. Calm down, OK? You need to calm down. Now.' She lets her hand drop. 'Has Cas ever overdosed before, that you know of?'

'No, but –'

'And he's been taking his meds properly?'

'Yeah, but –'

'Then trust him,' she says, simply. 'Look, I get that this is hard, but if you go barging in there now and he's fine, you're only going to make things worse. He's been dealing with this crap for years, and maybe his coping mechanisms are a little fucked up, but they haven't killed him, and if he needs space, he needs space. You'll be home in a few hours anyway; you can check on him then. OK?'

'OK,' he says, after a moment, forcing himself to be rational. 'OK. But if I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt, then you can't come with me tonight – not to begin with, anyway. I mean, there's still a chance he might just be home alone, you know?' He tries to smile, and the effort pinches his heart. 'But I'll text you if I need help. I promise.'

'You'd better,' says Charlie, giving him her sternest look. 'Now come eat something before you faint.'

 

*

 

In the end, it's close to 7pm before Dean works up the courage to go home. As much as the thought of Cas alone scares him, he's even more frightened of seeing him. The walk home has never felt so long, and Dean wonders what he'll do if Cas wants him to move out for good. He knows Charlie would take him in, but she doesn't have much space, which means his best bet is crashing on Victor's couch until he can find a new lease. The thought twists him up all over again: no more Friday breakfasts, no intermittent cat, no lazy Netflix marathons on the couch with Cas. No Cas singing off-key in the shower when he thinks Dean can't hear, or accidentally smearing pancake batter on his cheek, or wearing that stupid kimono because he's too lazy for shirts, or working quietly at the kitchen table while Dean does his readings – no Cas, period. The prospect is unbearable.

Dean turns up the path to the house, and feels his stomach sink. The lights are on, and he can already hear the music.

He forces himself to enter.

The place is packed, and the lighting lower than usual, except in one place beside the kitchen. It takes him a moment to work out why: somehow, Cas has rigged up a couple of impromptu spotlights, positioning them to illuminate an area just above the table, a decision made much less mysterious when the music changes and a girl holding a microphone climbs up into the limelight, singing enthusiastically along to Beyonce. It's not quite karaoke, but Dean doesn't have much time to consider it, because that's when he spots Cas, and the bottom falls out of his stomach.

Even from a distance, it's clear he's hit his pill supply, and hard: his mannerisms are jerky and erratic, his laughter overloud, and when he turns, his pupils are wide as saucers. He's shirtless and barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of dark jeans, and each of his arms is slung around the shoulders of someone Dean has absolutely zero desire to see ever again, let alone in close proximity to Cas: the blonde guy he slept with last Friday, whose name is apparently Balthazar, and – of all possible women – Meg. He does a double-take on that last, sure he must be hallucinating from stress, but no, it's definitely her, and when Cas kisses her neck, Dean thinks he might be sick.

'Fuck,' he says, and storms into the kitchen, grabbing a beer from the fridge and knocking the whole thing back in about ten seconds flat, because he can't do this, he can't watch Cas do this to himself, but he has to, because he's the only person here who has any idea of how badly it could all go wrong, and Cas deserves better from Dean than abandonment.

'You OK, dude?'

It's Inias, a concerned look on his face, and Dean almost weeps with relief at the presence of a friendly face.

'No,' he says. 'You know what, I am so very far from OK, I'm not even in the same hemisphere anymore.'

Inias hesitates. 'It's true, then? What people have been saying?'

'I don't know, Inias. What _are_ they saying?'

'That Cas's parents messed him up, and he kicked you out for telling people about it.'

On top of everything else, it shouldn't hurt as much as it does that Bela has somehow managed to pin the blame for gossiping on him, but it burns like acid. Dean bangs his head against the fridge and rests it there, voice slightly muffled as he says, 'It wasn't me who told, but the rest is true. I mean, he threw me out of the house this morning, and I don't know if he meant for good or just for today, I don't –' he pulls his head back, inhaling sharply. 'Look, can we not do this, please?'

'Sure,' says Inias, mercifully unbothered. 'Want another drink?'

'Please,' says Dean, and necks that one, too, because sobriety is for people who don't have problems.

He lets Inias distract him for another few minutes, then heads back out to the lounge, where Castiel is still being flanked by Balthazar and Meg. Dean tries not to stare, but when Meg spots him, she smirks and pokes out her tongue – and then, very deliberately, stretches up and licks along Cas's collarbone. Dean's hands clench into fists, and that's when Cas turns and looks at him, those big eyes blinking lazily, like he's too out of it to even properly feel what Meg is doing. They're so wide already, it shouldn't be possible for them to get any wider, but as they fix on Dean, they somehow manage it.

Expression unreadable, Cas drops his head and murmurs something to Balthazar, who laughs and nods and moves away, and when he looks up again, his gaze is almost feral where it lands on Dean. Disentangling himself from Meg, Cas crosses the floor and stands so close to him, they're almost touching.

'You came back,' he says, a flat, accusing tone in his voice that Dean has never heard before. 'I never said you could do that.'

'Cas, please.' Dean licks his lips, trying desperately to find the words. 'I'm sorry, I should've told you, I know that, I should never have lied, OK? And you can scream at me or kick me out for good – hell, you can take a swing at me if you want, I don't care – but please, just stop hurting yourself, stop acting like any of this –' he waves a hand at the party, '– makes you happy, because we both know it doesn't, and I can't –'

Cas laughs, cutting him off, the sound hard and biting. 'And this is why I don't usually room with straight guys, Dean. You ruin everything.'

He tries to shove past, and without even thinking, Dean grabs his arm and pulls him back, almost shouting, he's so hurt. 'If that's what you really think, then why did you kiss me, huh? Why do you make me breakfast, why do you –'

Quick as lightning, Cas leans in and kisses him, an angry smash of teeth and tongue that has no gentleness in it. He pulls back just as fast, smiling this terrible, cracked smile, then puts his mouth to Dean's ear and says, too quietly for anyone else to hear, 'I've been fucked by half the people here, and you think a kiss makes you special?'

All the blood drains out of Dean's face, but Cas doesn't stay to hear it, pushing his way through to the kitchen table. Utterly numb, Dean watches as Cas grabs the microphone and climbs into the spotlight, stretching as he speaks.

'This song is dedicated to Dean Winchester, who knows why,' he says, grinning wickedly as the crowd cheers, and part of Dean thinks, distantly, that at least the night can't possibly get any worse than this –

And then the music starts up, and he almost crumples, a terrible chorus of _no no no_ going through his head as he recognises the song, because of course [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cklb7L0OA1c) is what Cas picked for himself, of all possible songs, on all possible nights. It's cruelty past cruelty, but Dean doesn't know which one of them it's hurting more; only that he already feels like he's dying. Cas sways to the introduction, lithe and beautiful, and when he finally opens his mouth – miming, not singing, because even stoned to hell, he still knows he's no Sinatra – it's the saddest fucking thing Dean's ever seen, and he can't look away for the life of him.

 

_Breathe it in and breathe it out_

_And pass it on, it's almost out_

_We're so creative, so much more_

_We're high above, but on the floor_

 

_It's not a habit, it's cool, I feel alive_

_If you don't have it you're on the other side_

 

Cas is dancing, his motions slow and sensual, smiling as he mimes, those blue eyes bright and glassy as a doll's, as empty as air.

 

_The deeper you stick it in your vein_

_The deeper the thought, there's no more pain_

_I'm in heaven, I'm a god_

_And everywhere I feel so hot_

 

_It's not a habit, it's cool, I feel alive_

_If you don't have it you're on the other side_

_I'm not an addict (maybe that's a lie)_

 

Cas's smile is razor-sharp. He's cutting himself with every word, and only Dean can see the blood, because it's on his hands, and after this, he doesn't think it's ever coming clean.

 

_It's over now, I'm cold, alone_

_I'm just a person on my own_

_Nothing means a thing to me_

_Oh, nothing means a thing to me_

 

_It's not a habit, it's cool, I feel alive_

_If you don't have it you're on the other side_

_I'm not an addict (maybe that's a lie)_

 

'Jesus,' someone whispers beside him, and Dean barely has time to recognise the speaker as Inias before his attention is dragged back to Cas, who's beckoning Meg and Balthazar to join him on the table. Dean moves forward, barely conscious of the impulse, but stills as Inias holds him back.

'It's not worth it, Dean. Let it go.'

'But I can't –'

'Don't. Just, don't.'

 

_Free me, leave me_

_Watch me as I'm going down_

_Free me, see me_

_Look at me, I'm falling and I'm falling_

 

Cas grinds against Meg as Balthazar grinds against him in turn, and everyone's cheering and laughing, everyone but Dean and Inias, and somehow Cas has still got the fucking microphone, still miming like he does this shit for a living, and when he hits the next verse, his gaze finds Dean and pins him there, a needle of grief and sapphires.

 

_It is not a habit, it is cool, I feel alive_

_I feel..._

_It is not a habit, it is cool, I feel alive_

 

Dean turns away then, his cheeks wet with tears he doesn't remember shedding. He's dimly conscious of Inias's hand on his shoulder, of being steered over to the couch, and still that stupid _fucking_ song keeps playing in the background, and he doesn't have to look to know that Cas is still performing.

 

_It's not a habit, it's cool, I feel alive_

_If you don't have it you're on the other side_

_I'm not an addict (maybe that's a lie)_

_I'm not an addict..._

 

Someone puts a drink in his hand, a shot of something that Dean neither tastes nor smells, he puts it away that fast. He sits, dizzy with shame and lust and grief, and Inias is talking to him, but Dean can't hear it, can't hear anything except the final, belting chords of _Not An Addict_ , wailing vocals and sad guitar, and in that moment, he knows exactly two things: that he can never, ever listen to K's Choice again; and that, despite everything that's happened, he's still hopelessly in love with Castiel Novak. 


	7. Chapter 7

Minutes pass, or hours. Dean falls out of himself, the world a blur around him. He promised Charlie he'd call if he needed help, but what could she possibly do about this? Inias has wandered away again, and some stranger tries to chat Dean up in his place, but he waves them off and then, when they still won't shut up, stands, rocking to his feet with all the easy motion of a statue brought to life. The belated realisation that he doesn't just like and want Cas, but _loves_ him, presses against his heart like an undrained abscess. Jesus, and even if he hadn't screwed everything up, what the hell would Cas want with him, anyway? Dean's only ever been with women, which makes him fucking virginal as far as Cas is concerned, and if there's one thing sharing a house with the guy has taught him, it's that Castiel Novak isn't into sexual inexperience.

 _So don't be inexperienced,_ part of him whispers. _Find someone here, some guy to fuck or who'll fuck you, and get it over with._

_It's not like Cas will care._

Dean leans his hand on the wall, electrified by an emotion that's too complex to identify, until he realises a good half of it is fear. The enormity of what he's about to attempt hits him like a sledgehammer, because for the first time in his life, the prospect of seeking casual sex carries with it a risk of physical danger: of picking a partner who's stronger than him, whose carelessness or cruelty could be, quite literally, damaging, and he suddenly realises that every woman he's ever slept with has been so much braver than him.

'You look troubled,' says an unfamiliar voice by his ear, and Dean jumps, startled, to find a strange man standing next to him. Or _over_ him, rather, which is novel in and of itself: Dean is a little over six foot, but this guy still has a good three inches on him. He's sharp-jawed, pale-eyed and narrow, and his mouth is curved in a clear display of interest. 'What's your name?'

He swallows. 'Uh, Dean.' _Jesus, am I really doing this?_

'I'm Alastair.' He leans in a little closer, running a knuckle across Dean's jaw. 'You're far too pretty to be here alone.' Which would be forward as all hell anywhere else, but this is a Brothel party, and from where Dean's standing, he can see at least two couples who are only a few strategic pieces of fabric away from having sex in public.

Make that three couples and a trio: he catches a glimpse of Castiel, Meg and Balthazar and instantly wishes he hadn't. Meg is sitting on the edge of the kitchen table, her feet hooked behind Cas's legs as they kiss, while Balzathar nuzzles at Cas's throat, hands sliding over his ass. The sight is agonising enough that Dean turns straight back to Alastair and says, with as much confidence as he can muster, 'Well, I'm not alone now.'

'True,' says Alastair, and suddenly he hooks a long-fingered hand behind Dean's neck and drags him up for a kiss. It's not so much passionate as it is possessive; Dean's never kissed anyone that much taller than he is before, and Alastair's grip twists him at an odd angle, keeping him off-balance. But Dean is furious with himself, and furious at Castiel, and he kisses back angrily, gripping the front of Alastair's shirt as the other man crowds him up against the wall, his free hand slipping under Dean's shirt to twist and tweak at his nipples. It's such an unexpected sensation, Dean gasps, trying to pull back, but he's got nowhere to go, and either Alastair doesn't notice the attempt or doesn't care, because if anything, he pinches harder, licking hungrily into Dean's mouth.

An outraged shout cuts the air, and suddenly Alastair is being hauled away from him, leaving Dean to stare, dazed and angry, as a wild-eyed Castiel shoves the taller man hard in the chest.

'What the _fuck_ are you doing here, Alastair?'

Alastair smirks. 'Making friends?'

'The hell you are. I banned you for a reason. _Leave_.'

'You do realise,' Alastair says, almost idly, 'that everyone here thinks you're a freak?'

Cas goes still. 'Get _out_ ,' he says, but there's a shake in his voice that wasn't there before, and Alastair just laughs, carrying on as though there's been no interruption. Dean looks between them, fury rising in his throat at the sudden pallor in Cas's cheeks, the cruelty in Alastair's.

'You're pathetic, Castiel. A sad, broken slut who can't even –'

With a roar, Dean punches Alastair hard in the face, and once he starts going, he can't seem to stop. He hits him over and over, chest and jaw and stomach, fuelled by every drop of guilt and frustration that's built up in him since he first saw Meg, every scrap of self-loathing he feels at having let a man who'd treat Cas like that touch him, and all the while, Alastair just keeps laughing, staggering under the blows. People are shouting, and suddenly someone hooks their arms around Dean and hauls him backwards.

'Get off him, Dean. Get off him! Leave it! Let him go!'

It's Cas's voice and Cas's grip, and at that realisation, all the fight goes out of him. He pulls away, staring in mute horror at Alastair, who's clutching his ribs and still, obscenely, chuckling, despite the fact that he has a fat lip, a bloody nose and an already-swelling eye.

'Pity,' he says, looking straight at Dean. 'I think we could've had fun.'

And before anyone can think up a response to that, he lurches away and out the front door.

Shaking, Dean stares at his hands. It's been a long time since he hit anyone, and while his knuckles aren't swollen – yet – they definitely ache. He doesn't know what to do with himself; he feels sick, his heart pounding. The whole night is an utter fucking catastrophe, and as he looks at Castiel – and why was he so pissed, anyway? – he blurts out, 'What the hell was that for?'

Cas's mouth hangs open. 'I'm sorry?'

'Look, I get it, OK? You don't want me, you think I'm scum, but I kiss one guy and suddenly you're kicking him out of the party? What the fuck is your problem?'

' _My_ problem?' If possible, Cas looks even angrier now than he did a minute ago. 'My problem is, the guy's a fucking _creep_ , Dean! The last time he showed up, I caught him trying to roofie someone's drink, so no offence, but _this isn't about you_. This is about removing a goddamn sexual predator from circulation, and what the hell do you care, anyway? You're the one who practically broke his face!'

'Because of what he said about _you_ , dumbass!' Dean shouts. 'What, you think I'm gonna just stand here and let some douchebag call you a slut?'

' _I_ am _a fucking slut!_ ' Cas is right up in his face, completely wild. 'You know _exactly_ what I am, you stubborn, stupid –'

Dean grabs his shoulders, aching and furious. 'You're _not a slut_ , Cas! Jesus, don't talk about yourself like that!'

'And don't _you_ fucking lie to me! I'm barely functional, and _you_ –' Cas grips him back, slamming Dean up against the wall, '– _you_ were supposed to run screaming after the first week, you masochistic ass! You were supposed to _leave_ , because everyone _always_ leaves, and instead you fucking stay and watch movies with me and eat pancakes and you were meant to be fucking _straight_ , Dean, and you can't even fucking get that much right –'

Dean's voice cracks. 'Is that why all those other guys run out on you, Cas? You break their hearts, too?'

Cas makes a noise like he's just been stabbed. He stares at Dean, still gripping his arms, jaw working soundlessly, and Dean stares back, so shocked by his own admission, he can't think of what else to say. Then:

'You fucking _idiot_ ,' Cas breathes, and kisses him, hot and fierce and desperate, and Dean just moans and kisses back. He runs his hands up Cas's arms, across his shoulders, sliding up to cradle his face, while Cas's hands drop to his hips, pulling them flush together, needy as if they hadn't both been kissing other people a minute ago; as if any of this makes sense. Dean lets one hand slide along Castiel's ribs, thumbing gently at the warm, bare skin, and Cas gasps into his mouth, gripping Dean like he's afraid to get let go.

Dean breaks away slightly, panting as he looks Cas in the eye.

'Don't fuck with me,' he says, almost pleading. 'Cas, if you don't mean this, go back to Meg and Balthazar now, because I can't –'

Cas kisses him again, harder than before, his thigh slipping between Dean's legs.

'Want you,' he murmurs, mouthing at his throat. 'Since the week you moved in, I haven't wanted anyone else, I let Balthazar fuck me and pretended it was you, I didn't think you'd want me, I'm so messed up, I –' he's shaking now, pressing himself closer, and Dean just holds him, running his hands over every inch of skin he can reach, and when Cas looks up at him, his eyes are raw and vulnerable, '– god, what I said earlier, what I _did_ , I'm sorry, I'm _so fucking sorry_ , Dean, I should never –'

'Shhh.' Dean kisses him, gently this time. There's an ache in his chest, but it's the sweetest goddamn feeling, because this is _Cas_ , and he could no more let him go now than fly to the moon. 'It doesn't matter. Maybe I should care, but I don't, OK? I just hated seeing you hurt. I hate that _I_ hurt you.'

Cas shakes his head, tight and urgent. 'You didn't hurt me. All you did was try and help, and I threw it back in your face, I –'

They press their foreheads together, Dean still stroking Cas's back, and it's only then that he realises the party is still going on around them, bad karaoke and drunken strangers and, from across the room, Meg and Balthazar staring daggers at both of them. Dean laughs softly, kissing the corner of Cas's mouth. 'What do you say we get rid of these idiots?'

'You really think you can make them go? It's not even midnight.'

Dean smiles. 'Watch me.'

He pulls away from Cas, which is like a form of torture, and goes into his room. Flipping on the lights, he rummages around in his bottom drawer, letting out a breath of relief as he finds what he's looking for. Heading back to the lounge, he waves the item at Cas, who squints at it suspiciously.

'Dean, why do you have an airhorn?'

'Dude, I study sports medicine. Why _wouldn't_ I have an airhorn?'

'That answer makes literally no sense.'

Dean rolls his eyes. 'Do you want the party ended, or not?'

'Ended.'

'Then quit complaining and tell me where you plugged in the speakers.'

By way of answer, Cas leads him over to the lounge and points at a powerboard snaking out from behind it.

'Here,' he says, and without hesitation, Dean rips out the plugs. The music comes to an aggressive stop, and as people start to shout in protest, he sounds the airhorn, too. It's stupidly loud in the enclosed space, and in the short, shocked silence that follows, Dean steps up on the edge of the couch, leaning on Cas for balance, and yells, 'Everyone get out, quick! The cops are coming!'

Instant chaos. People start running and shouting, stampeding out the door. From his vantage point, Dean chuckles at the disgusted looks Meg and Balthazar shoot him as they hurry out, though he spares an apologetic shrug for Inias.

Within minutes, the house is empty of everything but mess. Dean walks a circuit just to be sure, checking for stragglers. Finding none, he gives a satisfied huff and pulls the chain over the front door, shutting them both inside. Cas sighs with relief, wrapping his arms around Dean's waist.

'Thank you,' he murmurs, leaning against his shoulder. 'I wouldn't have thought of that.'

Dean pulls him close, one hand cradling the back of Cas's head, stroking his hair. 'In fairness, it's how most frat parties end. I'm not really that creative.'

Cas kisses his pulse point. 'Yes, you are. You're extraordinary.'

Dean shivers all over. 'Cas?'

'Yeah?'

'Your room or mine?'

Cas kisses his jaw. 'Yours, please.'

They break away, still looking at each other, and in the end, it's Cas who moves first, padding quietly into Dean's room. Dean follows him, then stops in the doorway, heart pounding, and when Cas turns to look at him, the breath catches in Dean's throat.

'Are you all right?' Cas asks, a note of worry in his voice.

'Never better,' Dean says, and moves across to cup Cas's cheek, thumb stroking across the bone. 'Jesus, Cas,' he whispers. 'You are so goddamn beautiful, you know that?'

Cas inhales sharply. 'Dean, I'm not –'

'Just take the compliment, dumbass.' He says it gently, and all at once, the thought of screwing this up – of hurting Cas, or failing to please him – is like a knife in his guts. 'Oh, god. I have no idea what I'm doing, here. With a guy, I mean, I've never –' he gulps, trembling, '– show me?'

A wondering expression spreads over Castiel's face. He steps closer, slowly tugging Dean's shirt up, letting his fingers graze his ribs in the process. The cotton hisses against Dean's hair; he's blind for a moment, and then it comes free, dropping silently to the floor. Castiel kisses the hollow of his throat, lips training down as he kneels, peppering kisses across Dean's chest. They're both breathing raggedly, Cas's hands skimming down his legs. One by one, he takes off Dean's shoes and socks, and it shouldn't be anything other than a mundane act, except that he's still kneeling, still looking up at Dean the whole time, lips slightly parted, blue eyes wide. Dean can't help it; he reaches out and runs a hand through Cas's hair, massaging his scalp, and Cas leans into the touch like a cat.

He stands again, smiling as he leans in and kisses him, and it's only then that his hands move to Dean's fly, popping the button and pulling the zip. Dean returns the favour, a thrill going through him when he feels the bulge of Cas's erection through the denim. The kiss turns more urgent, hot and wanting as they tug their jeans and boxers down, and suddenly Cas is steering him backwards, urging him down onto the bed. Dean goes willingly, but he pulls Cas with him, not wanting to be out of contact, gripping that perfect ass. Cas moans in appreciation, rutting against him, and it feels like nothing in Dean's experience: they're both slick with precome, gliding against each other, and when Cas leans up and sucks his earlobe into his mouth, he groans unashamedly.

'Tell me what you want,' Cas murmurs. He sucks a hickie onto Dean's neck, one thumb flicking a nipple, and shifts his weight to his arm, that warm, gorgeous body pressing Dean into the mattress.

'I don't know,' Dean gasps, and not just because Cas is making it increasingly hard to think straight: he literally _doesn't know_ , doesn't understand the etiquette or the options; only that he wants more than this, wants to to keep going, wants as much as Cas is willing to give him. 'You, Cas, I just want you, I want all of you – _ahh!_ ' He tips his head back, gasping as Cas reaches down and grasps them both at once, the friction simultaneously too much and not enough. 'Oh, _fuck_. Fuck me,' he chokes out, meaning it as an exclamation, but then Cas kisses his ear again, nipping gently at the skin, and suddenly Dean knows exactly what he wants. 'Fuck me,' he breathes, turning his head to look Cas in the eye. 'Castiel. Please.'

'You're sure?' Cas says, running a thumb over Dean's lips, knuckles grazing his cheek. 'Dean, we don't have to do anything if you're not –' The sentence stutters and dies as Dean sucks his thumb into his mouth, biting gently at the pad, gripping Cas's hips as he rubs up against him. Cas pulls his hand away and kisses him deeply, only moving his mouth away to nip along his jaw.

'Fuck me,' Dean says again, right by Cas's ear, and the way Cas groans in response is downright sinful.

'Lube,' Cas pants. 'Where?'

'Top drawer,' Dean says, and there's an aching moment as Cas lets go of them, reaching over to pull out both the bottle and a condom.

'Roll over,' he says, more than a little breathless, and Dean obeys, every nerve on fire at the newness of it. He's completely off the map, shivering as Castiel kisses the nape of his neck and down his back, a sweet, slow descent that ends with a playful bite on his left cheek. Dean cushions his head on his elbow, breathing into the sheets as Cas gently nudges his legs apart, hands running over his ass. He hears the click of the bottle cap, and then he gasps, eyes fluttering as Cas slips a finger inside him. The lube is cold at first, but warms quickly, and as unfamiliar as the sensation is, it's also strangely enjoyable – or not so strangely, he supposes, given why they're doing it.

'Relax,' Cas murmurs.

Dean laughs. 'That's easy for you to say.'

'I can stop if you –'

'No, keep going. I – _ahhh_!' He bucks his hips, pleasure jolting through him. 'Oh, god. Was that –?'

'It was.' And Cas does it again, crooking his finger to brush against Dean's prostate.

' _Fuck_ ,' he groans. 'You need to hurry up, Cas. Like, right now.'

Cas leans forward, kissing his shoulder. 'Trust me, you don't want this rushed.' And then, more softly, 'I don't want to hurt you.'

'You won't,' Dean says, shifting against the mattress. 'I trust you, Cas.'

Cas kisses his neck. 'That's because you're an idiot.'

'True,' Dean says, then groans again, face pushed into the pillow as Cas adds a second finger. There's a burn as he stretches, but a slickness, too, and whenever Cas hits his sweet spot, he shudders and gasps, and _holy fuck_ , if the prep already feels this good, then the sex itself might just kill him. He loses track of time, aware only of the movement of Cas's hand, his murmured praise, the brush of his lips on his back. He starts to pant, hips moving against the mattress of their own accord, desperate for friction, and when Cas withdraws his fingers – three by then – Dean whimpers at the sudden emptiness.

'Hurry,' he gasps, and suddenly – finally – Cas is pushing into him, hands sliding along Dean's arms and pulling them straight, palms braced against the backs of his hands as their fingers twine together. There's a moment where it hurts, and another where it feels alien, and then it just feels _right_ as Cas lies over, against and within him, his spread knees pushing Dean's legs wide as he bottoms out.

'Are you all right?' Cas asks, kissing his ear.

'God, yes _._ '

'Good,' says Cas, and starts to move, gripping Dean's hands as he rolls his hips, still kissing his neck and shoulder. Dean arches his back and moans, sparks shooting through him with every thrust. There's a surrender and an intimacy to this that he didn't know was possible; Cas has complete control of him, body and soul, and that should be terrifying, but all he does with it is give pleasure,slowly picking up speed as Dean writhes and shudders and gasps.

'Want to see you,' Cas says, kissing along his shoulders, 'want to watch you come –' he pulls his hands away, rocking onto his heels, and Dean's already rolling back over, breathing hard and fast as Cas slides his hands up the backs of his thighs and pushes into him again, crushing their mouths together as Dean wraps his legs around him, rocking his hips to get him deeper.

'Cas,' he groans, the name becoming a prayer as Cas slips a hand between them and strokes his cock, the combined sensations almost overwhelming. Dean runs his hands through Cas's hair, completely lost in those impossibly blue eyes.

'Come for me,' Cas murmurs, lips just brushing his mouth, 'come with me, I'm so close –'

'Fuck, Cas –' Dean arches against him, and Cas is so beautiful, so perfect, he forgets to be cautious, '– god, I love you, I love you so much –'

'Dean,' Cas gasps, and kisses him, and suddenly they're both coming, Cas thrusting through the aftershocks as they shudder together. Dean leans back, heart pounding wildly, staring up at the ceiling with his heart in his mouth, because he can't believe he just said that, can't believe he was that fucking stupid –

Cas pulls out and collapses against him, heedless of the mess. 'I love you, too,' he whispers, burrowing his head against Dean's collarbone, and as Dean wraps his arms around Cas, he's smiling so impossibly wide, he couldn't stop if you paid him.

 

*

 

Dean almost falls asleep like that, his eyes drifting closed when Cas chuckles and says, 'We should really get cleaned up.'

Dean groans in protest. 'Don't mention even mention cleaning. The house is trashed.'

'Ugh, don't remind me. I'm never throwing a party again.'

It takes Dean a moment to process this, and when he does, he blinks. 'Do you really mean that?'

'Of course I mean it. Or, well,' Cas amends, sitting up slightly, 'no more Brothel parties, at least. The occasional normal party, I think we can manage.'

'How?' Dean asks, running a fond hand over Castiel's cheek. 'We don't even know any normal people.'

'Charlie and Victor seemed sane enough to me.'

'That's because you're a very poor judge of character.'

'I have been before,' says Cas, and the sudden vulnerability in his gaze is heartbreaking. 'Dean, I – are you sure you want me? Want this? You could have anyone at all, and I'm just –'

'Perfect,' says Dean, and kisses him. 'You're perfect, and that's an end of it.'

Cas laughs weakly. 'I don't know what I did to deserve you, but it must've been something very good.'

'You're always good to me, Cas.'

He glances down, ashamed. 'I wasn't earlier.'

'Hey. Look at me. _Look_ at me.' Dean sits up, turning Cas back towards him. 'I already told you, I don't care about that.'

'Don't do that,' Cas says, a flash of anger in his eyes.

'Do what?'

'Lie to me. Pretend I didn't hurt you.' He gulps. 'I saw your face, Dean. You were hurting.'

'Maybe I was, then. But not any more.' He kisses him, a light brush of lips, and grins when they pull apart. 'Now, do you want to come soap me down in the shower, or not?'

'Shower,' Cas says, and smiles that brilliant, thousand watt smile. 'But only if you soap me, too.'

'Deal,' says Dean, and kisses him again.

They take their time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading this! I may yet come back and write an epilogue of sorts, but for now, I'm considering this fic finished. The title, Get Some, comes from one of the songs in the Endverse!Cas playlist I put together while writing this. For anyone who's interested, the full playlist is:
> 
> Get Some - Lykke Li  
> Little Game - Benny  
> Chemical Heart - Grinspoon  
> Pure Morning - Placebo  
> Disturbia - Rihanna  
> No One's Here To Sleep (feat. Bastille) - Naughty Boy  
> Not An Addict - K's Choice  
> Snakeface - Throwing Muses  
> 6 Underground - Sneaker Pimps  
> Start A War - The National  
> Heartbeats - Jose Gonzales


End file.
